


Shards

by kally77



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Incest, M/M, WTF self?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 177,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kally77/pseuds/kally77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Origins. Starts with a drunken night of playing pretend and runs its course through tears and smiles until the end of the season. Please look at the tags and do not read if they squick you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The best thing about having the letters ‘C.E.O.’ next to his name on the company letterhead, Angel figures, is that when he decides he’s done for the day, that’s it. Just like that. He’s done. He just needs to press that button on his phone, try not to sigh when Harmony answers with a too perky, “Yes boss?”, and tell her he’s not there anymore. Not for anyone. And when she starts her answer with “But” he can simply press the button again, and listen to the silence.

Beautiful silence.

For long moments, there is only silence, and the caressing sound of molten gold curling in the embrace of crystal when he pours himself a drink. Then another one.

The second best thing about those letters? No one will fire him for getting drunk on the job. In fact, he’s pretty sure someone in this cathedral of steel, glass and blood is paid to make sure that his liquor cabinet remains well stocked at all times.

He’s just starting his fourth bottle – fifth? – when the silence fills with the parting words of today’s client. He turns them in his head, round and round, savoring them like he savors the aged whiskey on his tongue.

_You gotta do what you can to protect your family. I learned that from my father.  
_  
They could have been innocent words. Part of Angel wishes they were, wishes that Connor were still as innocent tonight as he was yesterday, knowing nothing of hell, of vampires, of fighting. Of pain and hurt and death and—

He drops his empty glass. It makes a soft thud when it hits the thick carpet beneath his bare toes, like the ghost sound of a dead heart beating just once.

Tearing the first few buttons of his shirt undone with his free hand, he brings the bottle to his lips with the other. Head thrown back, eyes shut tight, he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, swallowing fire and unshed tears and drowning his hope that Connor might come back. His fear that it was all for nothing.

Because, as much as he wishes they were, these few words – _my father_ – were anything but innocent. Connor knows. He remembers. Angel is sure of it.

His son remembers that he killed him.

“The father will kill the son,” Angel murmurs, and is taken by an irrepressible surge of laughter.

Still chuckling, he stands from the sofa with some difficulty and staggers in the dark to the liquor cabinet. He realizes he still has an empty bottle in hand and carefully places it on top of the cabinet. He has to try three times before the bottom of the bottle makes contact with the wood, and even then, when he lets go, the bottle topples off the cabinet and shatters. No plush carpet, here. No vampire reflexes to save it. Angel can’t save everyone. He should know it by now. And still, he stares at the shards of glass at his feet. The moon is bright, behind him. It shines through the windows and puts Angel’s mistake into sharp relief. All of his mistakes. He closes his eyes and, blindly, grabs a bottle into the cabinet. He returns to the sofa, but before he can sit down, the door opens behind him. 

Hope surges through him. Stupid hope. Silly hope. Connor is back home, by now. Back home with mom and _dad_. Angel knows it, and still, he hopes as he turns slightly unfocused eyes to the door. At first, all he sees is a silhouette, dark against the brightness of the lobby. And then, the door closes, and Angel sees exactly what he was hoping for.

“You’re here,” he says, and the words are, all at once, a prayer and a curse.

Slow steps and he is closer, close enough that Angel could reach out for him. Warm, living skin. Whole skin. Unscarred. He clenches his hand on the neck of the bottle.

In the dark, he barely sees those lips curl into the sardonic smile that was the only smile a young man who called himself Stephen knew. It seems like two or three lifetimes have passed since Angel has seen that smile. 

“Where else would I be?” he says, slightly mocking.

Angel gestures with the hand that holds the bottle. It feels heavy. He switches to the other one, pointing vaguely at the door. “With your…” 

He wants to say family, but the word refuses to pass his lips. He is his family. He, and Darla, and—

Angel twists the top of the bottle and tears it off. He rinses his mouth from the bad taste left by this dirty word he didn’t voice and finishes, “With them.”

Hands that are smaller than his own yet just as strong tug the bottle from his grip. He watches a perfect throat arch back. Metal flashes in his head, but there’s only blood in his memories. And still, acid drips from lips that aren’t smiling anymore. “Them? They only give a damn about me because of you.”

He reaches for the bottle again. Connor shouldn’t drink. Too young. Underage. Just a little boy. It seems like yesterday that he barely filled Angel’s open, supplicant hands, weighing nothing – more important than the entire world. 

“Of course they do,” Angel argues, trying to take the bottle back. “They care for you. They… they love you. Like I do.” Is it surprise that allows the bottle to finally change hands again? Angel doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare look into his face, into his eyes, afraid of what he would see there. “I only ever wanted the best for you.”

“The best. Right.”

The incredulity and contempt Angel didn’t want to see fill those sneering words. They sink beneath Angel’s skin, small but piercing hooks that pull more apologetic words from him. Will any apology ever be enough?

The flash of a blade in his mind says it won’t.

“You’ve got to understand. I didn’t have a choice. I had to stop you. I couldn’t let you...”

Angel’s voice trails off. He can’t finish. He doesn’t want to finish, doesn’t want to remember what he did. It seemed like so much blood. It had been a long time since the sight of blood had made him nauseous.

A few seconds trickle by in silence. He feels that his words are weighed, judged – and when those clear eyes narrow dangerously, he knows they have been found less than adequate. 

“You couldn’t let me do what exactly?”

Angel shakes his head. He turns away, bottle forgotten in his right hand, and steps to the windows. He presses his forehead to the cool glass and closes his eyes, wishing he had chosen his words better. He shouldn’t have brought up rash, despair induced mistakes. He knows blame rests with him, here. It always does. 

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs. “I know how much you were hurting. I know you were just doing what you were taught.”

“Angel—”

He hates his name, sometimes. No angel would kill their perfect, broken child. “I remember the first time you called me Dad. I thought my heart would break. Or maybe that I’d lose my soul.”

“The first time I—”

“I know I don’t have a right to call myself your father anymore. I’m just a vampire. Vampires don’t have children. But just once more… could you…”

Once again, he falters. 

When Connor was born, Angel started imagining the life of his son – their lives. He started planning all those big talks father and sons ought to have. He rehearsed them, sometimes, playing the part of the father and son, both things so new to him. 

When Connor was taken from him, he started imagining his return. What would he have learned? What would Angel need to teach him still? The images already were less detailed. The words, more uncertain.

This particular talk, Angel never planned.

“Could I what?” an impatient voice demands. “Call you sire?”

He shudders. Remembers the bottle in his hand and takes a healthy swig before he replies. “No, not—” He is cut off before he can finish.

“Dad, then? Daddy?” Is it amusement, piercing in his voice? “Is that it? You want me to call you Daddy?”

Angel feels like an idiot. Feels like flames are curling around his heart, warming it before they reduce it to ashes. He feels, mostly, like he’s being offered a gift he doesn’t deserve. “I… yes. I’d like that very much, Connor.”

“That’s not my name.”

He turns, forgetting his guilt for an instant, and glares. “Yes it is. To me, it is. It will always be. You’ll always be my son. And I’ll always love you.”

His voice cracks on the last words, becomes rough. Raw. Too many times, he has kept the words in, knowing they wouldn’t be welcomed. Now, though… Now…

“Say it again.”

The emotion behind that request is a good one. Daring to almost smile, daring to raise a hand to curl at the back of an always proud neck, Angel complies.

“I love you.” Still as rough, but the words come more easily now. Too easily. He can’t bear to look at him as the words take flight between them. He tightens his hand, just barely, and pulls until he can whisper those words into his ear. “I’ll always love you. And I always did. Even when you betrayed me. Even when you were trying to kill me. Even when you took the woman I loved from me. Always.”

He starts to shake as he waits for an answer. He couldn’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or something else – fear, maybe, or its cruel sister hope. The whisper that answers his own only makes him shake harder.

“I only wanted her because I couldn’t have you.”

The neck of the bottle slips from his fingers. He waits for the break, but he doesn’t hear it. His now free hand comes up to clutch, hold, hug. “Oh, son, you’ll always have me.”

It’s damn near perfect, enough so that Angelus rattles his cage, testing. But perfect is relative. In perfect, there is no room for the cock hardening against his leg, for his own to respond the same way, for hands to grab his hips and pull him closer.

He tries to jerk away, but the glass wall at his back stops him. “No! Don’t! Please… That’s not right.”

“Not right?” The words are a caress against the crook of his neck. Angel shudders in horror. Nothing more than horror. Nothing. “It’s not right for a son to want his Daddy? To want to please him? Make him proud?”

Angel wants to push him away. Pull him closer. He wants to shout and cry and laugh. He whispers. “Connor…”

“Shhh… You said you love me. Won’t you show me how much? Won’t you do this for me?”

“Anything. I’d do anything for you.” He already has done the most terrible thing. Nothing could be worse than that blade. “Anything,” he repeats. 

“Then kiss me.”

When he does, it’s not the barely there kiss he once laid on an infant’s forehead. It’s steel and blood. Death and rebirth. It’s too much hate, too much love, too many memories. Too many mistakes. What’s one more?

He breaks away. The tang of blood is on both their tongues. Hard to tell whose blood it is, though.

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It’s wrong. I’m your father.” And he’s not sure anymore if what is wrong is that kiss, their two cocks pressing against each other, or the soothing tone of his son’s words. He’s the one supposed to comfort. Lullabies and slow rocking. Open arms holding and clenched hand slashing. Oblivion.

Oblivion is a soothing voice, thick and sweet as honey. “Yes, you are. My daddy. Can I make you feel good, Daddy? Can I, please?”

A token protest, but already fingers are searching and he doesn’t try to stop them. “Connor, we shouldn’t… aah…”

The fingers have found. They curl in a promise. “I’ll be good, Daddy.”

Clever fingers. They’ve found the button of Angel’s pants. It slides through the hole with a murmur of expensive cotton. Time slows. Angel could swear he can hear each teeth of the zipper as it is pulled down. He closes his eyes, but the image is there. Branded in his mind and flesh, already. He’ll never forget what’s about to happen.

Not even if he wanted to.

Connor slides to his knees in front of him, eyes bright and wide. He’s smiling as he brings his mouth to Angel’s cock. A happy smile. The smile Angel always wanted to see on his lips. The smile he’d have given anything to elicit. That smile is his, now, and—

“Oh God…”

The smile is wet as it opens to engulf him. Angel’s world shifts, rocks, and he has to find an anchor. Fingers splayed over soft curls, he whimpers a little, and can’t help moving his hips toward that welcoming mouth, just a little, at first, then more deeply when the mouth accepts him. He whimpers again when the mouth pulls back and leaves him.

“Is that good, Daddy?”

He thrusts forward desperately, paints a line of saliva and precome over his boy’s cheek.

“It is,” he grunts, then groans when the smiling lips in his mind close around his needy cock. “Very good.” 

Swirling tongue and gentle teeth; Angel’s fingers tighten and pull a few hair loose. He wants to apologize – again. He’s causing pain – again. But the words his lips form are anything but an apology. 

“You’re a good boy.” There’s a hitch in his voice. He’s so close. So close to heaven. So close to hell. Perfection and damnation in soft lips he suddenly wants nothing more than to kiss again. “My good boy,” he breathes.

His right hand slides down to cup the boy’s cheek even as he manages to pull away. He falls to his knees to give grace and beg for forgiveness – to kiss him again. He can taste himself on those lips. He presses in, but the lips move against his.

“Will you touch me, Daddy?”

Another line in the sand. The wind hasn’t blown it away, yet, not fully. It’s only a little blurry. More than a little. “I can’t…”

“But I want you to. I want you to love me.”

He feels the pout against his mouth. He wants it gone. He wants the smile back. “Connor, I do, I really—”

“Then touch me. Daddy. Please.”

He does. 

With his mouth, first, kissing away the pout, tracing a wet line across an unbroken throat. With his hands, then, and they shake as he tugs away clothes, frees smooth, hard flesh. With his fingertips, following the thick vein that runs on his son’s cock, caressing his balls, dropping behind them to circle his opening.

He hesitates. Freezes. He shouldn’t. Mustn’t. He can’t.

“Do it, Daddy.”

Anything, he said earlier.

Anything for his boy. Anything to fill the void in his chest. Anything to forget a knife covered in blood.

He pushes in. Just his fingertip. Then more. Then two. Looking on his boy’s face as it contorts. Looking for regret, fear. Pain.

“Hurts?” he asks, almost begs.

“No, Daddy. Feels good. More.”

How could he say no to his boy? How could he ever say no?

His fingers retreat. His boy’s body is pliant beneath his hands, opening himself to him. Angel looks one last time into those clear eyes before he pushes his cock where it belongs. They seem to gleam, urging him on even when Angel knows it has to hurt.

Has he ever done anything other than hurt him?

A little harder, he pushes in. Pulls out. Always closer. Takes his boy’s cock in his hand and marvels at how familiar this feels. 

“I’m sorry.” The words fall from his lips with each thrust, each slide. Each tear. “So sorry, Connor. And I love you so much.”

The slim body bucks beneath him, arching into his hand. Angel’s hand accelerates, matching the snap of his hips and his boy’s harsh breaths.

“Come for me, my boy. Come for Daddy.”

With a wrenched cry, his boy – his son – finds pleasure at his hands. Pleasure, for once, rather than pain. Pleasure, not death.

Angel comes, breaking apart and falling to rest over his son’s heart. He is home, at last. “I love you.”

Mind and body still humming, Angel waits for an answer. Does anyone ever say these words without hoping to hear them back? His guts start twisting when only silence and stillness answer him. 

He waits as long as he can, but with each passing second, disgust rises in his chest as he realizes what he has done. He thinks he might just sick up, and not because of the too many bottles he tried to drown himself in. He rolls away, covering his face with his arm so he won’t have to face what he has done. Won’t have to face him.

He hears him stand. He hears rummaging in the clothes they have left on the floor. He hears the soft click of a lighter. He hears a deep drag on a cigarette and the slow, almost shaky release.

“So, tell me,” Spike says, his voice so low that it’s hard to distinguish any emotion behind the words. “Just how drunk were you?”

*

Spike doesn’t ask many questions. He knows Angel, and he knows when trying to get him to talk is as useless as trying to reason with Dru. Not that Spike hasn’t attempted both, on occasion. Boredom can be a demanding mistress, and pissing off Angelus, when done in a carefully controlled manner, sometimes had its perks.

That’s not going to work with Angel, though, not when he’s desperately clinging to his defense, tattered blanket he clutches to him without seeing it doesn’t hide or give any warmth.

Oh, Spike has no doubt that he drank too much; the smell of alcohol curls as thickly around him still as the scent of shame. But he knows by experience how much alcohol a vampire needs to drown out reality, and Angel is nowhere near that.

As he gets dressed, he considers Angel. Still sprawled out on the floor, he hides his face beneath his arm as though not looking at Spike will make what happened here _less_ , somehow. Spike is used to people pretending he’s not there; he’s also good at pretending it doesn’t bother him.

He wants to say something, innocent words that will imbed in Angel’s soul and make it bleed tears. It’s not just shame rising from Angel, though, but actual misery too. It’s no fun if the work is already done before he starts, Spike thinks as he leaves the office, blue smoke trailing behind him like regrets. Or maybe he’s just getting soft in his old age.

He doesn’t have much to work with: a name, mostly, and a few details. At the same time he has far too much – enough to know that Angel won’t like him snooping; that what he’ll find is likely to be seriously fucked up. Neither thing troubles him all that much.

He starts with Harmony. Gives her the kid’s name, along with a story on how Angel forgot to make him sign some paper or other, and now he’s sending Spike to fix his mistake. She should know better than to believe that story; she has seen the way Spike and Angel interact for long enough to know that Angel wouldn’t ask him to do anything remotely important – and Spike wouldn’t do it even if he did ask. It’s Harmony, though, and she’s blissfully oblivious. Blissfully ignorant, too; all she can do is wave Spike in the direction of Wesley’s office.

_That_ is an altogether different conversation. Wesley is many things – drunk, for one, or at least on his way there – but oblivious he is not. He stares at Spike over the rim of his glass, his clouded eyes unreadable. He’s as miserable as he has been since Fred bowed out early and left her seat to _something_ who calls Spike her pet, but at the same time, it’s different, like an old hurt that has just resurfaced, the pain still sharp enough to hide more recent wounds.

“It has nothing to do with you,” Wesley says at last, the words as crisp as lashes from a whip. “Nothing to do with any of us.” Strangely enough, those lashes seem to turn into self-flagellation.

Spike doesn’t back down. If anything, he’s more curious than ever. “Try that on someone who didn’t just get out of Angel’s office,” he drawls. 

Wesley almost flinches. If Spike hadn’t been looking for a reaction, he wouldn’t have noticed that barely there jerk, the sign of someone who has trained himself _not_ to react to blows, verbal or otherwise. Wesley is good, but Spike has a century of practice over him.

He touches his lips to his drink, and the effect is the same as though he had taken a deep swallow. “Regardless,” he says, his voice as blank of emotions as his face. “I doubt Angel wants you to have anything to do with Connor.”

Spike figures as much himself; that’s in part why he’s there. It’ll be a sad day when nothing he does can surprise or anger Angel anymore.

The other reason for his curiosity is like the shadows and bitter cold of a long winter; if he’s going to be called by someone else’s name, he wants at least to know who that person is.

“I just want to check on the kid,” Spike says, with just enough exasperation coloring his words that they sound like the truth to his own ears. On a whim, he adds, “He’s got to be pretty confused after today.”

It’s a shot in the dark. Anyone would be confused upon visiting Wolfram & Hart, he supposes, and especially if their guide was Angel. Shot in the dark or not, though, Spike hits the bull’s-eye. This time, Wesley _does_ flinch. This time, he empties his glass before answering. He adds a last name to what Spike knew. A town. A school. And then, just as Spike is about to leave…

“Be careful,” he says. “Connor can be a little…” He frowns, as though looking for the best word, and finally settles on, “Unpredictable.”

Spike doesn’t reply and strides out. He dutifully adds ‘unpredictable’ to the mental list of things he knows about Connor Reilly. It’s a short list, but the only thing that truly matters is the very first thing on it, right at the top, engraved in Spike’s mind in an angular script that resembles Angel’s scrawl. 

Angel loves Connor. 

And Spike will be damned again if he doesn’t figure out the how and why.

*

The day after coming back from LA, Connor lies to his parents.

It’s hardly the first time he has done so - _It wasn’t me who broke her toy. I didn’t eat all the cookies. I’m not stupid, I know beer is for losers. It’s over, we’re safe now._ \- but it’s the first time he feels no hint of shame or guilt as he says the words. 

“I’ve got so much to study for finals, I’d better spend the rest of my break on campus.”

They nod, tell him how proud of him they are. His mom bakes cookies, the same kind he never could resist when he was a kid, for him to take when he goes.

Driving back to college in the beat up car he didn’t buy with money painstakingly saved from years of mowing the neighbors’ lawns, Connor eats a still warm cookie, one small bite after the other, and wonders – is this the first time he has actually eaten one of these things? It feels familiar on his tongue, and yet entirely foreign.

One set of memories says no. He has eaten entire dozens of the treats over the years. He’s even helped his mom make them a few times, has licked the spoon clean, run his finger inside the bowl – _“Don’t eat it raw, silly! You’ll make yourself sick!”_ \- but he never got sick from eating raw cookie dough. He’s never gotten sick, period.

The other set of memories…

Connor wishes he didn’t have that other set of memories. He wishes that, when he thinks of his father, only one face would come to the front of his mind. He wishes he could leave all of _that_ life behind as easily as he left the Wolfram  & Hart building.

Then again, did he really leave?

He meant to. He really did. When he went to say goodbye to – Angelus; his father; his dad? – Angel, it was all crystal clear in his mind. What Angel had done. Why. How hard it must have been. How best to show his appreciation for this new life he had been offered. 

Such a precious gift.

Such a fragile gift.

Too fragile, maybe, to endure the barrage of memories that has been rolling over Connor ever since he walked away from Angel. Words, sounds, even the most familiar objects trigger new memories – except, they’re not new, are they?

In the car, the slight hissing of the brakes reminded him of that flying creature on Quor-toth. The entire way home, he remained tucked against the back door, as far from - Lawrence - his father as he could be while remaining in the car, biting his already short nails as he tried to remember the name of that creature. When he finally did remember, he wished he hadn’t tried so hard.

He went up to his room feeling groggy, his mind filled with – his father’s – Holtz’s voice teaching him the best way to kill Fl’orks, reminding him that each kill was only training for a greater purpose. There were no birthdays, in that life, but Connor is pretty sure he wasn’t older than six or seven when he butchered his first Fl’ork.

At lunch, the next day, he found himself staring at his knife, and the smear of hot sauce on it, the red almost the same shade as fresh blood. In his mind, it was another hand holding the knife – and it was his blood on it. He forced himself to finish his steak, then excused himself to the bathroom and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach but roiling acid.

A precious, fragile gift, yes. A gift bought with blood and tears.

That was when he decided to go back to campus. Until his mind stops bringing back to this life the demons he has killed, lessons he has learned and the anger – oh god, how much anger can one soul hold before bursting into flames, ashes to ashes and hate to blood? – it will be better if he’s alone.

He realizes how much of a mistake that is as soon as he drops his duffelbag on his bed. He flees the small dorm room, flees the other rooms he recognizes in those bare walls and large windows. He walks around campus, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground, and pieces of his heart falling behind him like a trail of breadcrumbs. It’s slowly dawning on him that there will be no going home, this time.

There’s no home to go back to.

Night falls without his notice. Connor keeps walking, going over his own steps like his mind goes over his life. His lives. His death.

When the blond man steps in front of him, his first instinct is to apologize for almost bumping into him. That lasts only a fraction of a second, until he realizes this is not a man.

Vampire, his senses scream, and the anger boils over in a flash. He attacks before he even knows what he’s doing.

*

Almost four years with the chip in his head and Spike has become pretty good at fighting without trying to hurt his opponent. It can’t really be called fighting – sparring, at best; not getting his ass kicked, to be entirely accurate. Right now, it’s taking a hell of a lot not to hurt the kid – and not to let the kid hurt him.

Although maybe calling him a kid is a bit of a stretch.

Back at Evil & co, Spike was too busy with Illyria to really pay him any mind, but now his entire attention is on him. He’s not big, certainly, but he isn’t a scrawny kid either. As they tussle, lightning quick moves make everything a blur, but each contact reveals a lithe body made for speed. There’s no lack of strength behind the blows, though.

The gravel of the path crunches beneath Spike’s heavy shoes and the kid’s sneakers. The kid’s heartbeat is barely any louder. Fast, yes, but not as fast as it should be, and neither is his breathing. It’s downright confusing.

What strikes Spike the most, however, is the way the kid moves. If he were a girl, with a too short skirt and skimpy top maybe, Spike would have labeled him a Slayer five seconds after he attacked – without provocation, yet another trait that is all too familiar. But he’s definitely not a girl, definitely not a Slayer, and the more Spike watches him, the more he sees it. There's a reason Spike can block most attacks without needing to think, his body reacting with the knowledge of experience.

The kid moves just like Angel.

Spike has beaten Slayers before. He’s bested Angel – only once, but he has. He could take this kid if he really wanted to, he has no doubt about it. And maybe because he’s so sure of himself, he doesn’t need to prove it to either of them.

They’ve been at it for a few minutes already when he says his first words. “Name’s Spike. We met yesterday.” He lets a smirk touch his lips, but doesn’t drop his guard for a second. “Although maybe you were too fixated on Blue at the time to notice me.”

For the first time, the kid hesitates. His expression, which was all business until now, changes to something else, something that speaks of anger and frustration. Spike has seen that look before, but usually it takes a little while to bring it out of Angel. The eyes are wrong, though, as hard as blue-gray steel where Spike’s mind insists there should be glowering amber.

“You’re a vampire,” he says in a low growl that’s unlike the clear voice Spike vaguely recalls hearing before. 

The kid’s movements slow down, but he doesn’t stop. Now they’re truly sparring, each observing the other and learning from attacks as well as parries. 

“You didn’t mind vampires yesterday,” Spike muses aloud. “Seemed right chummy with Angel.”

The name is like a switch. The kid’s eyes narrow, he surges forward, a bold move that catches Spike completely by surprise. In a split second, the fight is over. Spike is sprawled on his back, the kid kneeling over him. And as his own blood fills his mouth with the bitterness of defeat, Spike realizes three things. One, he badly underestimated Connor. Two, if he had wanted to kill, Spike would be dead. And three… 

He frowns and sniffs again, his mouth already opening to ask, but Connor steals the question from his very lips, enunciating each word slowly as though it pained him.

“Why do you smell like him?”

*

The first few minutes, Connor does not think. He lets his body, his instincts, a lifetime of training take over. Barring a couple of fights in the past two days, he hasn’t seen any action in—

—A blade flashes through his mind and he clenches his fists not to raise his hands to his neck. He can almost feel the his blood flowing free, flowing along with his life, too hot, too fast, too—

—longer than he cares to remember. Not long enough. Far too long. 

However long it was, his body doesn’t care. He can still kick, punch, flip, jump. He can still fight. His fingers itch to close on a knife, a stake, an axe, anything. There are trees nearby, the branches just thick enough. There’s a bench, metal and wood. A metal trash bin. Rocks. Everywhere, Connor sees weapons. He doesn’t reach for any of them. His hands always were the only weapons he ever needed. They still are. He could end the fight any time, but he finds he doesn’t want to, not yet, not when falling back into this most familiar dance feels so right, not when it’s clearing his head better than anything else so far. 

When the vampire speaks, Connor’s mind reengages. More recent memories surface, and push older ones back. He replies, but the words are meaningless.

Spike. Yes, he remembers Spike. Thrown through those doors, storming back in with a curse on his lips and hell’s fire in his eyes.

Blue. The woman. Demon. Whatever she was. 

Fred, a quiet voice from his past whispers. Big popcorn buckets and bigger brain. Tasty midnight snacks and the sweetest smile.

But _this_ wasn’t Fred. Nevermind the hair, skin or catsuit. Fred never moved like that, or spoke in that clipped tone. The memories are still bubbling, an incessant water spring that continues to flood his mind. The water is murky from carrying too much dirt, but some of it is starting to settle. Some things are clear, almost too much so. 

He continues to trade blows with Spike, but there’s little heat left to the fight. He wants to ask what happened to Fred. He wants to ask about Gunn. He’s afraid, so damn afraid to ask about Cordelia…

Spike gives him an escape path. A single word is enough. Connor channels all his confusion, old anger and new frustration into a last blow. The fight ends. Part of him wants to finish the kill. Another part screams that there has been quite enough killing already. Enough blood spilled.

Enough and too much seem to have become synonymous in his too full head.

He takes a sharp breath to try to clear his mind, but far from helping, it only adds to his confusion. He frowns at the vampire beneath him, who frowns right back at him.

“Why do you smell like him?” he asks.

He wants to say ‘Angel’. He wants to say ‘my father’. Both are like jagged shards of glass, and he’s afraid that, if he cuts himself on them, he won’t ever stop bleeding.

Spike understands, though. He lets out a bark of laughter that cuts off abruptly when he carefully palms his jaw and throws a dirty look at Connor.

“Could ask you the very same thing,” he says. “How about you get off me and we pretend to be normal people for two minutes?”

Connor doesn’t immediately move. He’s too stunned to move. He smells like Angel? Does he? Really? He’s so used to his own scent, it never even occurred to him, but now that Spike mentioned it—

—Years of tracking by scent as much as by sight or sound entwine with years of being teased by his sister for his delicate nose. He learned to identify all sorts of animals by their scent; he learned to recognize people; he learned to ignore anything he smelled unless someone else mentioned it first.—

—he can smell Angel on himself. He tugs at the collar of his t-shirt and sniffs. It’s not the same, not as sharp as the scent is on Spike; rather, it’s mixed with other things that make it completely different, and yet utterly recognizable.

He still hasn’t moved, and Spike apparently loses patience. Taking advantage of Connor’s distraction, he clutches his arms and pushes, twisting his body until Connor is on the ground and Spike above him. Before Connor can react, he jumps to his feet and takes a step back. Just one.

“Done talking with your fists?” he asks, and extends his open hand to Connor.

Connor stares at the hand then at Spike for long, interminable seconds as his mind wars against itself. He needs no help, and especially not from a vampire. Not to get up. Not to figure out who he is. Not to make him forget again, give him back the oblivion and peace that was his just days ago.

He does _not_ need anyone.

His hand is shaking when he reaches out to Spike’s. He lets himself be hauled to his feet. When he tries to pull back, Spike doesn’t let go, and shakes his hand instead as though it had been what he meant to do from the start.

“My name’s Spike,” he says again, an amused smile flitting on his lips. “I work with Angel. And I suppose the brooder in chief’s scent is on me because he’s like you. Fight first, ask questions later.”

Connor’s immediate reaction is to deny that he’s anything like Angel. He bites his tongue rather than say a word. How many times was he proved wrong on that point? Isn’t that how he found a way out of Quor-toth, too stubborn to give up even when the very laws of the universe said he couldn’t go back? Isn’t that why… _Holtz_ …did what he did in the end, recognizing in Connor the very thing he wanted to destroy? Isn’t that how they ended up in that mall, both of them ready to kill because trying to love hurts so damn much?

Spike still hasn’t let go of his hand, and the prolonged contact is starting to make Connor uncomfortable. He should pull free. He really should.

Spike clucks his tongue reproachfully. “I thought we were doing this all proper, now. Let me help. Your name is Connor Reilly and you smell like Angel because?”

He raises an eyebrow, prompting Connor to finish. It’s the last thing Connor wants to do. He’s not stupid, he _knows_ why he smells like Angel. He’s pretty sure if he went home – no, not home, not anymore – and really paid attention, he’d find that his sister’s – but she’s not his sister, is she? – scent is a mix of her parents’. Like his scent must be a mix of _his_ parents.

The bastard son of two vampires, and even when they didn’t exist for him anymore, he was carrying them with him every step of his imaginary life.

At that instant, he can’t deal with imaginary anymore. He doesn’t want lies, could have been or if only. He wants the truth, as raw, as painful as it may be. And the truth is—

“Angel is my father.”

He’s almost proud of himself when he doesn’t stumble on the word, but the taste of bile still burns the back of his throat.

Spike’s hand tightens on his. His eyes widen impossibly. “Fuck me,” he murmurs, a faintest trace of awe in his words. When he finally releases his grip on Connor, he laughs, but there is no joy or humor in his laughter. Not even surprise. Instead, he sounds… for some unfathomable reason, he sounds bitter.

Without quite knowing why, Connor smiles.

*

Spike laughs so hard he starts wavering on his feet. So hard his eyes fill with tears. He pulls himself to the nearby bench and collapses on it, lying out on his back, his face turned up to the empty sky.

So damn empty.

He calms down, his hilarity dying as quickly as it was born, but remains where he is. He finds his cigarettes and lights one despite his unsteady hands, then slides his arm beneath his head. Volutes of smoke rise toward the sky, filling it with an illusion all too easily dispelled, like the illusion he is alone. As hard as he tries, though, he can’t forget the young man now standing three feet away. 

From the corner of his eye, Spike sees him crossing his arms. He makes a small sound, not quite a sigh, almost huffing, definitely annoyed. It wouldn’t take much for Spike to think it’s Angel standing there. Somehow, it’s fitting.

“You’re not surprised,” Connor says, and _he_ sounds slightly taken aback.

Spike turns his head to him, but that’s not enough. He sits up, legs stretched in front of him, the cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Why would I be?”

“Vampires don’t have children,” Connor says, and he sounds like Spike is the one making outlandish claims while he knows better. He sounds exactly like his father. 

Spike can’t resist the urge to jerk his chain. “Ah, but we do have children,” he says with a thin smile. “We teach them table manners, and how to defend themselves, and to respect their elders. They just don’t have a heartbeat, usually.”

He cocks his head and listens intently. Regular as a ticking clock. Slow, even so soon after their little fight. Connor’s heartbeat fills the night.

“These aren’t _children_ ,” Connor spits. The smile that was painted on his lips starts melting, like a bad make-up job. Pity. He has a pretty mouth.

Spike raises a single eyebrow at him. “You’re telling me your father didn’t teach you to fight?”

Hesitation flickers in Connor’s eyes, and while Spike didn’t know for sure when he asked, now he does. Rather than answering, Connor raises his chin and takes a half step forward.

“Did you know about me?” he asks. “Is that why you’re here?”

Spike considers him thoughtfully as he ponders his reply. If he wants answers to the many questions he has, he will need to play a fine game.

“I’m here,” he says slowly, “because Angel let your name slip and I’ve always been curious.”

Too curious for his own good, sometimes. He’s still wondering how much more this little discovery trip is going to hurt. He’s no stranger to pain, though, and sometimes it can even be worth it.

Connor’s crossed arms come undone, and he clasps his hands in front of him, picking at his nails absently. “What did he say about me?” he asks, and for an instant, just the blink of an eye, he sounds and looks like a small kid; afraid he’s done wrong, afraid he’ll be punished, afraid he doesn’t matter enough to be punished. So bloody afraid, Spike can almost taste the metallic tang of fear – but already it’s gone, wrapped tight under layers of confusion and curiosity.

Again, Spike wonders how much to say. “He didn’t really say much,” he says, and notes the flash of disappointment in light eyes that seemed much darker while they were fighting. Why was he so angry then, and why isn’t he anymore? “Said you were his son,” he continues. This time, he can’t read the emotion that runs through Connor’s face. “At the time I thought he meant the other sort of kid, but I guess not.”

“Is that all he said?” Connor asks, and he sounds both relieved and frustrated. Angel may have taught him to fight, but he hasn’t started on the lessons on how to hide what he feels. Spike can’t be sorry for that.

“He also was rather emphatic about how much he loves you.” He adds a small eye roll to his dismissive words, but it’s all an act. He’s watching Connor like a hawk. What he finds is… unexpected.

Unpredictable, Wesley said, and Spike is starting to understand what he meant.

Connor’s entire body tensed up at the words, and he stands still, as though poised on the edge of a new attack. Spike only moves his hand to his mouth and away, pulling the cigarette from his lips under the pretext of tapping the ashes away, but he is ready, should the rising fury he can see in Connor’s darkening eyes and smell in his souring scent erupt into another wave of violence.

But Connor does not move. His lips barely part as he mutters, “He says that a lot. But he has strange ways of showing it.”

Spike’s eyes widen, his mind suddenly on overdrive. He can’t possibly mean…

Can he?

What took place in Angel’s office, the words that were said there are one thing, but Spike is pretty sure that it all only happened because it was him, and even if he called him by another name, Angel knew it. 

He’s sure… and yet, as he meets Connor’s burning eyes, he wonders…

But Spike never has the chance to ask, even if he did know how to phrase that awkward question. Connor is already striding away, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks like a kid again. A lost one. Spike takes a deep drag on his cigarette and lets him go. 

For now.

*

After _that_ , after Spike leaves without the barbs Angel would have expected and disappears, Angel manages to pull his clothes back on with hands that shake so hard that each button is sheer torture. In his tunnel vision, he can only see inches in front of him. Just enough to know that he won’t step into a dark pit and tumble down to hell.

God and the devil know he should.

He goes up to the penthouse and immediately tears his clothes off, pushing them to the bottom of the kitchen trash bin before hurrying to the bathroom. An electronic panel just outside the shower lets him change the water temperature. He pushes it up as far as it will go, but when he steps under the scalding spray, it’s nowhere near hot enough. Head bowed like a praying man, he remains there, and tries not to think. Tries not to feel. 

The shower washes out his tears, but not his sins.

It’s late night when he emerges from the shower. His skin is as red as though he had sunbathed. If it had not been night, he might have considered it. He dresses and goes out. His so-called bodyguards try to follow, but when he grabs their leader by the neck and vamps out in his face, the man listens. Calls back the hounds.

There are enough ugly things following Angel tonight, no need to add any more.

He goes back to the core of what he does. What he did, before selling out to the devil. He stalks dark alleys, finds vampires to slay, innocents to save. Knowing the whole while that there is no saving himself. 

If it had only been a dream – nightmare – induced by too much alcohol and too much pain at losing his son yet again – how many times will he lose him? how many different ways? – he could have dealt. There are so many dark things in his past, he would have added one more to the list. A dream – nightmare – while the rest was all too real, but he could have lived with it.

But he wasn’t the only one there. These moments do not exist only in his memory. And Spike… He winces every time Spike’s face flashes through his mind. He knows Spike all too well. Spike won’t let him live it down. He won’t let the wound scab over. He’ll poke at it and make Angel bleed again and again and…

And being hurt is all he deserves.

He doesn’t get much sleep before he has to get back to his office. The broken glass and empty bottles have been removed. The floor and carpet, steam-cleaned. He can barely even smell a thing. But he can see it every time he raises his eyes from the mound of papers he’s trying to sift through and looks across the room. He can see _him_. And the blue eyes that urge him on do not always belong to the same person.

Every time his door opens, he cringes, expecting Spike to walk through. The entire day passes without any hint of billowing leather or sneering lips. Then an entire night. Angel knows better than to hope Spike is gone for good. He wishes the idiot would come back already, and get the worst over with.

Spike’s worst turns out to be beyond what Angel had anticipated.

They’re in the middle of planning how to get Gunn back when Spike strides in and commandeers the chair directly opposite Angel. Usually, they all ignore him, but this time is different. Illyria looks at him coolly, and demands to know where her pet has been. Wesley frowns at him, and there clearly is a question on his lips, even though he doesn’t voice it. And Angel—

“Wes, we’ll finish this later. Take Illyria with you and close the door.”

Angel only needs to take one sniff before he decides that, this time, he’s going to kill Spike.

*

It goes even faster than Spike expected. He doesn’t even need to say a word before Angel clears the room for the upcoming show. Once it’s started, once Angel has thrown him off the chair – and destroyed said chair in the process – he doesn’t try to talk or reason with him.

He remembers what he told Connor earlier, about Angel attacking first and asking questions later. It has never been so true.

He remembers, also, thinking that Connor moves like Angel. It’s still true, but at this moment, Spike could swear it’s Angelus he has in front of him. The blows are certainly vicious enough.

“You _had_ to go find him,” Angel roars. He has shifted to game face and his eyes are pure gold. 

Spike ducks a roundhouse kick, but when he stands again Angel grabs him and throws him across the room. Spike misses the wall and the weapons there by inches, and instead falls half on Angel’s chair, half off. His head hits the floor with a nasty thud, and he has to clutch the desk to stand again. He doesn’t stay on his feet for long.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Angel seizes the lapels on his duster and hauls him up, before slamming him down in top of the desk. The wood gives an ominous creak, but nothing breaks. “You just had to put your nose in what is none of your fucking business!”

He climbs on the desk and kneels over Spike, one hand clenched on his shirt, the other poised over his heart. He’s found a stake somewhere, and the point is already digging into Spike’s flesh.

It occurs to Spike that _now_ might be a good time to say something.

He licks his lips and meets Angel’s eyes without flinching. “You gonna do it, daddy? You gonna kill your boy?”

A look of pure horror bursts on Angel’s features as they revert back to the human mask. He lets go of Spike and the stake as though his hands were burning. The stake clatters to the floor, and by the time it has stopped, Angel is five feet away, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“He… he told you?” he stammers.

Keeping his best poker face on – he definitely didn’t see _that_ coming; didn’t think Angel would finally do it, no, but not this either – Spike sits up on the desk and just gives Angel a slight grin. Let him interpret that however he wants.

“Oh god…” Angel’s eyes close tight. His words drop to a whisper. “He remembers. He remembers all of it.”

The guilt is back at once, thick enough that Spike thinks he’s going to gag. Thick enough that he’d start wondering again how far exactly Angel went with the boy, but something doesn’t quite mesh.

“He told me what you did, yes,” he tries, wondering if Angel is upset enough not to hear the lie in his words.

“I thought he might, but I hoped…” His eyes snap open and find Spike’s. They’re almost feverish as he crosses the room and clutches Spike’s shirt again. But where before he was threatening, now he’s frantic.

“What else did he say?” he asks. “Did he tell you why I did it? Why I had to? I didn’t have a choice, it was the only way. He understands that, right?”

There’s a pleading edge to his words that Spike doesn’t like. Once, he would have thought that hearing Angel – or Angelus, whichever – beg would be the sweetest sound. He’s not so sure anymore.

“I don’t know about understanding,” he says carefully. “He looked more pissed off than anything else.”

Angel’s fingers slacken, and his hands soon fall to his sides. Nodding, he steps over to his fallen chair, sets it right and lets himself fall into it. He looks like Spike just beat him, not the other way around.

“He’s always been so angry,” he murmurs, his eyes set on a point somewhere behind Spike. “Always so damn angry… I hoped with a new family… but I guess it’s too late for that now. All for nothing. All this blood... But he found his way back and now...” He blinks, and his gaze focuses again. He frowns as he finds Spike. His voice hardens. “The last thing he needs is to be reminded of it all. You’re not going to talk to him again, you hear me?”

Spike doesn’t reply. Nothing on earth could stop him from unraveling this particular mystery, and certainly not Angel. 

“Just tell me something,” he says before Angel can demand a promise he won’t give. “How did you get a human kid?”

Angel shakes his head. His lips twist on a smile so bitter that Spike can almost taste it.

“Same as for everything else. A prophecy.”

Spike has a feeling that there’s quite a bit there that Angel is not saying, but now is not the time to ask. He’s already drawn more from him than he had expected – and managed not to get staked in the process. When he sees Connor again – later that night, he thinks, after they’ve taken care of the Gunn situation – he knows how he’ll play his cards and get him talking.

*

Connor has been walking around the moonlit campus for a couple of hours when the scent of blood stops him dead in his tracks. It’s sickeningly familiar, and he wishes he couldn’t remember why he knows it so well.

All his memories are back by now. At least, he thinks they are. He spent hours in bed, staring at that crack in the ceiling above his bed without seeing it, then more hours trying to exhaust himself by pummeling inanimate objects, and the entire time, flashes of his life ran through his head – his real life, not the make-believe he was offered, like eighteen years worth of birthdays and Christmas presents wrapped up with one pretty, bloody bow. He hopes there isn’t more to it; he doesn’t think he could take more. It’s already all he can do not to let it all break him – again.

The imaginary life helps, a bit. A year earlier, all he knew was that the world was pain and darkness, and even the shiny bits were sharp enough to tear your heart out. Now he knows there can also be softness, like a mother’s hand brushing his hair out of his eyes just so she can see them better as she smiles at him – Darla had smiled, too, before he made the wrong choice and rendered her sacrifice meaningless. He knows there can be joy, like a father and son laughing together because of something absolutely silly, something no one else would understand – like the joy Jasmine gave them all, before they realized it was nothing but a lie. He knows there can be love, like too big eyes looking up at an older brother – love without hate; he’s not sure he ever felt that before, not sure anyone ever loved him without hating him in the same breath, except maybe—

“Why do you smell like blood?”

He knows, before he turns, whom he will find behind him. This time, he won’t attack. This time, he has a better grip on himself. Just the same, he fists his hands in his jeans pockets and slowly faces Spike. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, feeling the beginning of a smile tug at his lips.

Spike hears the echo of their first conversation like Connor did and grins around his cigarette. “Look at that, he can speak without his hands. Who knew.”

Connor’s eyes detail him, but he can’t see any wounds. The scent of blood is all over him, though, and Connor abruptly remembers Spike is a vampire.

“Whose blood is it?” he asks, barely aware that he is shifting his stance and pulling his hands from his pockets. “Have you fed from—”

“A mug,” Spike cuts in. His smile is gone, his eyes narrowed. “A fancy little porcelain mug, filled with a blend of otter straight from your father’s personal reserve. The bastard always liked his frou-frou drinks.”

Connor doesn’t react at the mention of his father, which surprises him and Spike both, judging by his slight frown. He doesn’t relax either and tilts his head sideways, peering at Spike even more intently. There might be something in the way he stands, a little too stiffly, a little too still. “So… it’s your blood?”

Spike nods slowly, and the smile returns, twisted into something almost dangerous. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

His eyes are already flickering to Connor’s hands. With a slight snort, Connor raises them, palms toward himself, split knuckles toward Spike.

“You didn’t do that kind of damage staking vamps,” Spike says, not sounding particularly concerned.

“A punching bag, actually,” Connor says, and shoves his hands back in his pockets. They hurt when they brush against the fabric, but pain is familiar, just like blood.

“Who won?” Spike asks, tongue in cheek, and Connor almost laughs.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be receiving a bill from the gym,” he says with a sheepish shrug.

A small light gleams in Spike’s eyes and he inclines his head toward the path behind him. “I’m sure we can find something more interesting for you to kill.”

He says it the same way Connor’s friends might offer a game of bowling or an outing at a club, promising a good time, a few laughs, and friendship. Connor’s first thought is to decline. He’s good enough at bowling that he has disgusted quite a few friends from playing with him, and he never liked clubs very much; too much noise, too many scents, and, too often, that strange prickling at the back of his neck that made his heart beat too fast with something not fully unlike fear. But he knows now why his eye-hand coordination is so good; he knows that there must have been vamps in the clubs he visited before. He knows what to do about it now.

“OK,” he says, and lets Spike guide him to the back alleys and fights that were once – that will always be – his life.

*

Spike lets Connor take the first couple of vamps they find despite how much he itches for a fight. Illyria ruined their grand rescues plans, and while Spike has been having his fun sussing out her fighting style, he wouldn’t mind a go at something he actually has a chance in hell of taking down. Bending time isn’t playing fair – not that he wouldn’t do it himself if he could.

He watches Connor fight, and again the thought comes to his mind that, if there’s any such thing as a boy Slayer, Connor’s got to be it. It figures, with Angel’s history with the girl kind. But that has nothing to do with why Spike is there, and he’s ready to teach a lesson to anyone who would claim as much.

When they stumble on a group of vamps – only three; what does one need to do to get a real challenge in this town? – Spike joins in the party. Not that Connor wouldn’t have been able to deal with them on his own. Spike just doesn’t want him to get too tired before they have a go at it, later.

Or actually, Spike thinks as he watches the dust of the last vamp settle at Connor’s feet, why not now?

He waits until Connor turns to him and without warning he lashes out, kicking at the stake in his hand. It draws an arc in the air, hits the wall of the alley and clatters on the pavement. Connor’s frown lasts only a second before he catches on. He gives the tiniest of nods, and they start the rematch of their first encounter.

Now that he has a better idea what Connor can do or not, Spike doesn’t hold back. He’s not trying to actually hurt him, not exactly, but he’s not trying _not_ to hurt him either anymore.

For a moment, the only sounds that fill the alley are those of their steps in this familiar dance, Connor’s heartbeat striking the measure. Spike has never been the quiet type, though, and he’s an expert at using words as well as his fists and feet to destabilize an opponent. What’s even better, people forget to guard their words when they are too busy guarding their bodies. He just needs to decide what question he most wants the answer to.

He wishes it were not so easy to decide.

“You ever met the Slayer?” he asks after a long series of blows and parries when they both need a second to recuperate.

“Faith? Yeah, I met her once.”

That’s not the name Spike expected, and he frowns slightly before delivering the next attack. “Did you, now? What did you think of her?”

Amusement sparkles in Connor’s eyes as he parries. “That she has a mean right hook.” Spike just has the time to think amusement looks a lot nicer than anger on him before Connor drops low and kicks out, trying to catch Spike’s legs. Spike stumbles back. He stays at a distance and begins to circle Connor, who does the same thing.

“You two fought, huh?”

This time the amusement almost translates into a laugh. Almost. Spike wonders what it’ll take to get a real one. “More like, she kicked my ass.”

Spike smiles. He hasn’t had much one on one contact with her, but he’s pretty sure Connor could hold his own against Faith. What could possibly have distracted him? Not the way she dresses, certainly.

“What did you do to piss her off?” he asks as he stops and pulls his cigarettes from his pocket.

Connor stops as well. In the blink of an eye, his face drains of emotions. “I tried to kill Angelus.”

Caught in the middle of lighting a cigarette, Spike lets the lighter go out without touching the flame to the tip. He stares at Connor. “You mean Angel?”

“No.” Connor’s voice doesn’t change. “I mean Angelus.”

Spike frowns and tilts his head. He doesn’t remember Connor being in Sunnydale on Angelus’ last weekend release – not that Connor would have been old enough to fight him then. “When was that?” he asks.

“Last year.”

“You father lost his soul _last year_ ,” Spike repeats, confusion filling him. He vaguely remembers Willow heading out to LA, but she never said what for, only came back with Faith in tow. He figured that was it.

While Spike tries to remember if Faith hinted at anything regarding Angelus, Connor turns his back on him and starts down the alley. There’s a curious angle to his shoulders, all of a sudden, as though the weight of the world had settled there. “A lot happened last year,” he mutters, and if Spike’s hearing wasn’t so sharp, he might not have caught the words.

“And here I thought it was just me,” Spike says to himself before going after Connor. He raises his voice and goes back to business. “What about…” Damn it, but one day he’ll manage to say her name without stumbling on scars or slipping on blood. “What about Buffy? Ever met her?”

He’s caught up with Connor, who looks at him sideways as he finally lights his cigarette. “Buffy? Who’s that?”

Spike takes his first drag and holds it in until it burns. He can almost feel the flames engulfing him. “Another Slayer,” he says as he exhales, and tries to think of a way to get the info he wants. Angel said the kid took the woman he loved. Spike is even more interested now that he knows it’s not _her_. “The one your father was in love with before his new girl.”

It works even better than he could have hoped. The kid is curious, that much is clear in his voice as he asks, “What new girl? You mean Cordelia?”

Spike chokes on a puff of smoke. He stops again, bending with a hand on his knee as he laughs and wheezes. “Cordelia?” He can’t keep his hilarity and surprise from his voice, and stares at Connor with incredulity. “He fell for _Cordelia_?”

He’s laughing so hard that it’s too late when he notices Connor’s closing face and fists. At the first punch, his cigarette falls from his lips and his head whips back. He calms down instantly and manages to block the second punch, striking Connor’s hand away and deflecting the blow. He moves back and tries to figure out what set Connor off like this. Connor follows, glowering, and Spike gets it.

“Something tells me he wasn’t the only one to fall for her,” he says, smirking.

Connor launches himself at him, catching his shirt and using the leverage to throw him against the nearest wall. “Shut up!”

Spike picks himself up from the ground and wipes the trickle of blood he can feel sliding down his cheek. His eyes never leave Connor. “Fancied her too, did you?” he pushes. “Is that why you wanted to kill him?”

Connor’s eyes are as dark as they were yesterday, when he first attacked Spike. “Shut the hell up!”

Spike raises his hands, palms out in a calming gesture. He takes a few steps back, getting closer to the metal dumpster a little deeper in the alley. “Hey, I’m not judging,” he says on a tone that claims the opposite. “I’ve fallen for the wrong girl before, and I’ve done my fair share of trying to kill him too.”

“She wasn’t—” Connor stops mid snap, and for an instant Spike wonders if he can see through the trap that is being laid out in front of him. But no. His control slips again, and he rushes at Spike with a wounded cry. “You know nothing!”

Hand to hand, with no finesse whatsoever, only blunt force. Spike allows himself to be driven back.

“I know enough,” he says in between blows. Jumping back, he springs up and on top of the dumpster. Connor glares at him from below. “I know you and Angel have hurt each other so deep you’re both still bleeding with every breath you take.”

“He doesn’t breathe,” Connor deadpans.

Spike snickers. “Funny.”

Grabbing the side of the dumpster, Connor pulls, hard, and makes it topple forward. “I’m not trying to be.”

Spike uses the momentum on his fall to jump, making sure he keeps the dumpster between him and Connor as he lands. Just a few more lines to trip him up… “The missing sense of humor and the brooding must be hereditary.”

Fury rises from Connor in waves. “Do you have to bring everything back to him?” He leaps across the overturned dumpster, but Spike had anticipated his move. He welcomes him with a foot that catches Connor in the ribs and sends him face first into the wall. Spike is on him before he can move, twisting his arms against his back and pressing against him for a fleeting second. His heat scorches him.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he breathes in Connor’s ear. Connor struggles, but he can’t move much, not unless he wants to dislocate his shoulder. “It pisses you off and it makes you careless. All good from where I stand.”

He presses down on Connor just one more time before letting go, very slowly, making it clear that this game is over. They’ll have time for a rematch later. Connor seems to understand this the same way he understood Spike was only playing when he first attacked. He turns toward Spike and gives him a dirty look. There’ll be hell to pay, next time, he silently promises. Spike only smirks.

Without another word, they start toward the end of the alley, side by side again, although Spike notices there’s a foot more between them, now. They exit the darkness into a street filled with lights and sounds, and only then does Connor ask, “You really tried to kill him?” 

There’s no need to ask who he means by ‘him’. The shadow of Angel has loomed over them since they first laid eyes on each other. 

Spike nods absently, wondering how much to say. Details are overrated, he decides. “A couple times, yeah.”

Connor glances at him sideways. His eyes are expressionless. “Why?”

“First time? Because he’d taken the woman I loved.”

He realizes, even as he says it, that every word is a lie. It’s never been anything but a lie. Sometimes, lies are more comforting than the truth. Sometimes, they are close enough to the truth as to make no difference.

“Why didn’t you do it?” Connor asks, and for an instant, he almost sounds reproachful.

Spike shrugs, not particularly happy to revisit this particular memory. “I was just a fledgling. I couldn’t take him.”

“You gave up.”

The contempt is so thick in Connor’s voice that Spike stops, and waits for Connor to turn back toward him. He gives him a flat look until Connor looks away, the slightest hint of red tinting his cheeks.

If Angel is still alive, that look says, it can only mean that Spike isn’t the only one who gave up. Or lost.

“For a time,” he says as they start walking again. “I learned to fight better. Figured I’d get my chance eventually. And then, the idiot went and got himself cursed with a soul. He made himself scarce after that.”

It’s Connor’s turn to stop mid-stride. He looks at Spike with slightly widened eyes. “Wait. You mean… you knew him as Angelus.”

“I had the dubious honor, yes.”

Connor’s teeth catch his bottom lip for a second or two before he says, “Then you must have known Darla too?”

This question, Spike wouldn’t have seen coming in a million years. In his memories of the good old times, when everything was much simpler and being a bloody champion was the very last thing Spike would have wanted, the blonde nuisance is but a bleep on his radar. Connor’s eyes, however, are wide and eager to hear his answer. He gives it cautiously. 

“I did. Why do you ask?”

Just like he did last night when Spike started talking about his father, Connor seems to lose ten years and a few inches along with his confidence. “What was she like?” he asks in a small voice.

Spike frowns. Why the hell would he care? “Blonde.” He raises his hand. “This tall. Pretty enough, I suppose, if you like the bitchy, sneering type.”

Connor’s hands close, like they did when Spike laughed at the mention of Cordelia. Interesting – even if Spike can’t figure out what it means. Darla would have broken the kid over her knee, super strength or not, just because Angel cares about him and she was not into sharing.

“She was beautiful!” Connor says, practically growling.

Spike doesn’t get it, and says so. “Why do you ask if you knew her?”

“That’s not what…” He takes a deep breath and looks away. “Nevermind. Forget I asked. I’m going home.”

Without waiting for Spike to reply, he starts crossing the street, barely looking if there’s a car coming his way. Spike hurries after him. “So that’s it? You’re bailing?”

Connor doesn’t slow down and keeps staring straight ahead. “I’m tired.”

Spike has been on the receiving end of Angel’s ‘leave me alone, I don’t want to talk’ moods often enough to recognize this. He stops, but calls after Connor. “You’ll be patrolling tomorrow?”

Connor hesitates. Stops. Looks back, and considers Spike for a long moment, his eyes inscrutable. “Maybe. You going to show up again?”

Spike grins. He still has it. “Maybe.”

*

After Connor leaves, Spike starts walking back toward the parking lot where he left the car – and it had better still be there or Angel will rip him a new one. Halfway there, however, he stops and looks around him, clearly searching. Angel doesn’t try to hide, but he doesn’t show himself either, simply waiting to see what Spike will do. After an instant, Spike shakes his head and crosses the street, entering a bar in front of which a bunch of college kids are smoking. Angel hesitates. If Spike went in to hunt another vamp or two, he neither needs nor wants Angel’s help. But if he noticed he was being followed, going in there was an invitation.

A crowded place is not what Angel had in mind for the beating he owes Spike, but he supposes they can share a drink before he teaches Spike – again – to keep his nose out of Angel’s business.

Weaving his way through the bar, Angel finds Spike at a small table in the back. He has a beer in hand. A second one is waiting on the table across from him. Angel recognizes the label – Guinness – and takes the empty seat with an exaggerated sigh. 

“You think you can soften me up by buying me a drink?” he asks even as he picks up the beer. The agitator clanks softly inside the bottle as he tilts it back and he takes a small mouthful. He had dreamed of taking Connor to Ireland, when he would have been five or six. It wouldn’t have been an easy trip to plan, but he wanted his son to know where he came from. Too late now, he supposes. Connor knows everything he needs to know about his heritage. More than Angel ever wanted him to learn.

“Who says I’m buying?” Spike cocks his scarred eyebrow at him. “You’re the one with a salary.” Before Angel can object, he asks, “How did you find me?”

Angel snorts. “You took my car.”

“I took _one_ of your cars. It’s not like you need all twelve of them.”

Angel remembers thinking the same thing. He remembers refusing to sell his soul – because he can’t deny anymore that it’s what was on the table, not after what happened to Fred – for a motor pool and a large office bathed in sunlight. He sold it, in the end, to offer a dream to his son. A dream now shattered, but there is no reclaiming his soul. 

“And of course, you had to take the Viper,” he continues as though Spike hadn’t said a word, as though his own thoughts hadn’t drifted somewhere else entirely.

Spike gives him his most shameless grin before raising his beer in a toast. “Always liked a nice set of wheels.”

“So I see,” Angel says flatly. “And what else do you like that you won’t always get to keep? Your dick attacked to your body, maybe?”

He delivers the threat on a conversational tone, knowing full well that yelling at Spike does no good whatsoever. He knows he has made an impression when Spike’s hand barely pauses as it brings the bottle back to his lips. The scars have faded on Spike’s wrists, but Angel is sure he can still feel the bite of the saw. 

“As I recall,” Spike says, his voice perfectly level – almost too perfectly, “you’re rather fond of my dick being exactly where it is, too.”

His left hand slides down, and through the clear Plexiglas tabletop Angel can see it come to a stop where his parted thighs meet. It cups suggestively, and for the blink of an eye, Angel wants to replace Spike’s hand with his own. It doesn’t last, though. That’s not what he came for. Returning his eyes to Spike’s face – the idiot is smirking, of course – he glares at him. “What do you think you’re doing, Spike?”

As often as Angel questions his intelligence, Spike can be smart when he needs to be. He seems to realize at once that they’re not talking about the beer, the car or his exhibitionist tendencies. His smile sharpens until Angel could swear he can see a fang, and he answers in his most innocent voice, “Me? I’m just out for some family bonding.”

Angel leans forward over the table, almost spilling his still mostly full beer. He catches it before it can fall and drops his voice to a growl. “He is. Not. _Your_. Family.”

Unsurprisingly, Spike does not heed the warning. “Isn’t he?” he asks in exaggerated surprise. “We share the same blood. The same daddy.”

Angel’s hand clenches on his bottle at that seemingly innocent word. He wants to tell Spike he’s stepping on a slippery slope, but already Spike is adding, a mocking light gleaming in his eyes, “You think I should tell him, next time?”

Angel doesn’t know if he means tell Connor that Angel is his Sire or tell him… about _that_. He doesn’t want to know. Before he is even conscious of moving, he is on his feet, looming over the table, and his game mask has come to the forefront. “There won’t be a next time. I’m going to—”

Unfazed, Spike stares right back with eyes that remain absolutely blue. “Stake me, yeah, I know. If you’re really going to try to do it, just skip the threats and go straight to it. If not, put the fangs away and sit down before we get thrown out of here.”

Angel shifts back to his human visage, but he doesn’t sit. He’s not sure when he let go of the beer bottle and grabbed a stake from his pocket. 

Spike never even looks at it, his eyes remaining on Angel’s. “You knew I was going to come here tonight,” he says, his voice harsh with what they both know is the truth. “You let me. And you know I’ll be here tomorrow. So either do something about it or shut the bloody hell up.”

For long, long seconds – they might even be centuries – Angel is not sure of what he will do. He has wanted to stake Spike many times since he appeared in his office. He had wanted to do so even more often than that before he did. And yet, Spike is still there, as aggravating as ever. Angel wouldn’t miss him if he was gone for good. He didn’t see him for years, decades, and that was just fine as far as he was concerned.

If he’s entirely honest with himself though, he can admit it was fine because he knew their paths would cross again, eventually.

The stake disappears in the inside pocket of his jacket. He sits down. Glaring, he dares Spike to even say a word and takes a swig of his beer. For a moment, they sit in that slightly awkward, slightly companionable silence they have perfected. Angel is the first to break it. There’s a reason he followed Spike, a reason he kept an eye – an ear – on him and Connor as they fought, sparred, bantered. He was ready to jump in at the first hint that Spike might say something he wouldn’t live long enough to regret. He needs to know if he has to keep worrying about that.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Spike frowns lightly. “Tell him what?”

Angel doesn’t respond, or at least not in words. He gives Spike a flat look. He can smell the thread of shame rising in his own scent, and he has no doubt that Spike can smell it as well.

And indeed, after a few seconds Spike rubs at his nose absently and mutters, “You knew it was me, didn’t you?”

Angel still does not reply. His look hardens until Spike lets out a little snort and leans toward him over the table, even batting his eyelashes twice.

“It’s not like it was the first time we played that particular game. Was it, Daddy?”

His last words curl around Angel’s dick like a too warm hand and send a jolt through him. “Don’t—”

Spike scoffs and drops the act, leaning back in his chair. “No, I’m bloody well not going to tell him. Don’t you know me at all?”

Angel soothes his dry throat with a sip of beer. It’s not as cool as it was earlier, not as flavorful. Or it might be the turn the conversation is taking that is stopping him from enjoying the drink. “I know you too well,” he murmurs, the words meant for himself as much as they are meant for Spike.

“And I know you,” Spike replies coolly. “Or I thought I did. If he’s your kid, how come you don’t keep him where you can protect him?”

The reproach is clear in his tone, and Angel can hear another reproachful voice behind it. A voice broken with tears, and months of rage that had slowly chipped away at Connor’s defenses, finally letting the true reason for his anger shine through.

_You let him take me. You let him get me._

Angel could be offered an eternity to figure out how to answer, he could be given a thousand do-overs, he still wouldn’t know what to say that would stop Connor before there was no option left but that blade and spilled blood.

Because Angel knows Connor was right. And he knows, now, that there’s nothing he can do to ever fix that first mistake: he let someone take his son from him. 

Never mind his soul; he will burn in hell for this.

“I never could protect him,” he hears himself say. His eyes are on the bottle in his hand, and he’s absently scratching at the label. “Not from my friends. Not from my enemies. Not from the world. Not from himself. And not even from me.”

Under his nail, the G of Guinness has turned into a C.

“Why would he need protecting from you?” Spike asks, sounding wary. “You haven’t fuck—”

Angel’s head snaps up and he slips into game mask again. “If you finish that sentence I _swear_ I will feed you your own dick.”

Spike raises both hands in a peaceful gesture. “Just checking. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have asked if you were in my shoes.”

Angel shakes the mask away with a mouthful of beer before glaring at Spike some more. “Why do you even care?”

Spike shrugs. “Told you. Family.”

“And _I_ told you he’s not. He has a—” God, how he has come to hate that word. Whenever he says it, it’s the Reillys he sees, assembled around a dinner table on the first day of Connor’s new life. “—family and we’re not it. He has a life, and staking vamps outside bars and dance clubs is not it.”

Spike scoffs. “Did you actually look at him tonight? He was _born_ to fight!”

_Of course he was,_ Angel wants to shout. _He’s my son. He learned how to kill at the same time he learned how to walk. But I never wanted him to!_

He forces his voice to remain quiet and says, “I know. But I also know he can do much better than that. He _was_ doing much better. He had a life. He had a future.”

“He still has a life and future,” Spike says with a small roll of his eyes. And then, flippantly, he adds, “He’s not dead, is he?”

Angel turns his face away, unwilling to let Spike sees how deeply the blow hurts. Even so, he must have a pretty good idea. He’s just taunting Angel with what he has done. He can be so cruel, sometimes… Angel has no one to blame for that but himself. William did not have it in him to hurt anyone unnecessarily. Angelus taught him well. Much too well. A hundred years later, and the lessons are apparently still fresh in Spike’s mind.

For a long moment, he can feel Spike’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look back at him. Instead, he watches the people around them. Humans. Young. Some of them are playing pool. Some are dancing. Most aren’t old enough to drink alcohol. Connor should have been here, tonight, having fun with people his own age. With friends. He should not have been hunting vampires, especially not with Spike. 

But he was. And deep down, beyond the despair that all this pain was for naught in the end, Angel can’t help it. He’s proud of his son. He always was, even at their darkest hours, even at the bottom of the ocean, even when he and the others were running from Jasmine. Connor is his son. Whatever he does, whatever choices he makes, regardless of the name he wears or whom he chooses to call ‘dad’, he’ll always be his.

There’s a time when parents need to let go, though. And as much as it tears him apart, he won’t stop Spike from coming back.

At least, he knows someone will be there to keep an eye on Connor when he can’t. His mouth twists at the thought of those conversations he won’t be there to hear – or interrupt. He takes a mouthful from his beer and finally returns his eyes to Spike, who is peering at him with undisguised curiosity.

The words come out slowly. They also have a slight pleading edge. Angel wishes he didn’t have to say them at all, but he realized a long time ago that his wishes, where Connor is concerned, don’t have much to do with reality. “If he asks about Darla again, don’t… don’t give him a full account, all right? He doesn’t need more details than what he already knows.”

Spike doesn’t even try to hide his disgust. There was never any lost love between him and Darla. Neither of them liked to share. “Why did you even tell him about her?”

Angel sighs, and finishes his beer. The taste doesn’t begin to cover the bitterness that always returns when he thinks of the man who stole his son’s childhood. And again, the blame rests at his own feet. “I didn’t,” he says gruffly. “Holtz…” He shakes his head. “The same man who told him about Angelus told him about his mother.”

He expected Spike’s reaction at his words, but the slacking jaw and bulging eyes almost make him smile anyway. “His mo…” Spike stares at him in obvious disbelief. “Darla? You had a _kid_ with _Darla_?”

As he stands, Angel throws a couple of bills on the table. “He _is_ a kid, Spike. But he’s been hurt quite enough for a lifetime already.” His voice hardens in a last warning. “Don’t make things worse.”

He’s not three steps away yet that Spike has caught up with him. He continues to alternate between incredulity and astonishment, but Angel doesn’t say anything other than, “My Viper better be in its parking spot and in mint condition by morning, or _someone_ will regret it.”

He can hear Spike’s laugh all the way back to the Porsche, along with his parting words.

“Yes, Daddy.”

*

“You’re late.”

The steps behind Connor stop at his sharp words but he doesn’t look back. He keeps his eyes on the water in front of him. In the dark, if he pretends he can’t see the curve of the banks, the lake could almost resemble the ocean.

He has memories of the beach; beautiful memories. Golden sand warm under him as he kneels and builds a castle that will end up as tall as he is. The waves, cool and relentless as he learns to swim, and Lawrence’s hands holding him above the water – “I’ve got you”. His sister’s laugh when she places her foot in his hands and he propels her back into the water.

With no sun to warm his face, though, different memories have floated back to him like so many paper boats on the verge of being submerged. He doesn’t like these memories. He doesn’t like to remember what he did. He doesn’t like either that he never apologized.

It seems Spike has a problem with apologies too.

“Late?” He snorts as he comes to stand by Connor’s side. “Wasn’t aware this was a date. Should I have brought flowers?”

Connor doesn’t take to the bait. He’s beginning to understand that Spike likes to play with words, likes to twist them this way and that, and pull more from Connor than he gives in return.

“Later than usual, then,” he amends his words.

Spike crouches and Connor looks down to see his hands searching in the grass. When he stands again, he holds a few flat stones.

“Some moron tried to hide my car,” he says, the edge of a laugh in his words. 

“Hide it?” Connor asks absently. He watches as Spike throws the stone across the water. It hits the waves just so and bounces forward, and again, and a little farther, until it finally disappears with a plop.

“Not all that well, either. I just had to flash my fangs to a lackey to get it back.” He throws another stone, but Connor is now looking at him. “You’d think the humans who work for Wolfram & Hart would be used to being around vamps, but no, they get scared like anyone else. Wankers.”

Frowning, Connor watches the third stone skip over the water. Spike offers him the last one but he shakes his head. He learned to throw rocks, with his hands or a sling, but he never skipped stones, not in either of his lives. There was no ocean on Quor-toth, no lake, just water trickling between rocks, too precious to waste on anything that wasn’t absolutely essential. He has the sudden urge to jump in the lake, and has to turn his back on it not to do it.

With no water to distract him, Spike’s words hit him. He glances at him again, and catches him looking right back with a slight frown that instantly disappears.

“You came from Wolfram & Hart?” he asks. He remembers Spike mentioning he works with Angel, but Connor didn’t think about it until now.

Spike lights up a cigarette, “Yes. Why d’you ask?”

“These past three nights, you’ve been coming from Wolfram & Hart?” Connor repeats. “In LA?”

Spike nods even as he releases a puff of smoke.

“That’s like, a six hours drive!”

“Only if you drive a minivan at the speed limit.” Spike’s grin is positively feral. “I go just a bit faster than that. And I’ve got better than a minivan.”

Five minutes later, Connor has to agree. A gleaming red Dodge Viper? Much better than a minivan. Much better than any car Connor has ever laid a hand on. He does just that, brushing his fingers against the hood. It's still warm. He whistles softly. “That’s yours?”

Spike laughs. “I’m driving it, ain’t I?” At the flick of his thumb on a small remote, the car’s lights flash twice. The sound of the doors unlocking is no louder than a whisper. He dangles the keys in front of Connor’s face. “Wanna take it for a ride?”

Connor doesn’t care to find out whether he’s joking. He only saw his first car a year or so ago, but he remembers years of hoping that, somehow, he’d have mowed enough lawns by the time he turned sixteen to buy the car of his dreams. The Viper isn’t it, but it’s not far from the mark. Nor far at all.

He reaches for the keys – but before he can touch them, Spike is five steps back, the key ring twirling on his finger.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.” 

His laugh is an invitation. Connor doesn’t need to be asked twice. Grinning, he launches his first attack. He won the first night, Spike bested him the second time – he’s not going to lose again.

*

“God, who taught you to drive like an old grandpa?”

Spike will be damned if Connor is driving five miles over the speed limit. At first, he thought it was because they were in town and there were people and cars around them. But now that the highway is open in front of them like a blank book they only need to write in, he’s still not pushing the Viper anywhere near its limits. It makes Spike regret letting him win.

Because _of course_ he let him.

“My mother,” Connor belatedly replies, and there is something in his voice, like the sadness of a day at the beach spoiled by an unexpected storm. His eyes never leave the road but the brief clenching of his hands on the wheel does not go unnoticed.

“Somehow,” Spike says, his eyes narrowing slightly, “I have a feeling you don’t mean Darla.”

_That_ brings Connor’s eyes to him for a brief instant. Spike is getting good at reading the darkness that sometimes fills them to the brim. “Last night you didn’t know she was my mother,” he says, and it’s as good as an accusation.

Spike sees no reason to lie – at least not about this. “I had a chat with Angel.”

The engine purrs a little louder as the car accelerates. Spike has the time to count to five before Connor reacts exactly as Spike thought he would. 

“About me?”

“Well he didn’t drive all the way to Stanford to talk about the weather, did he?”

Another flicker of Connor’s eyes. They’re too big and wide. “He… was here?” he murmurs. “Why didn’t he talk to me?”

Spike snorts and rests a hand on his chest. “You’re asking me? I gave up trying to understand him about a century ago.”

For a while, there is nothing but the sound of the engine – Connor is pushing it quite nicely, now – and the whistling of metal as they pass cars and trucks. Spike crosses his fingers behind his seat’s headrest and relaxes. It’s a nice night. Clear, with a half moon rising behind his window. He doubts they’ll be killing anything tonight, but that’s all right. He almost died today – according to Angel, he _did_ die in one of Illyria’s little time loops. He figures, he deserves a night off.

Besides, the company’s nice too.

“Did you kill?”

Connor’s quiet question takes him by surprise and he sits a little straighter, returning his hands to his lap even as he glances at him. “What?”

“Back then,” Connor says. There’s nothing in his words, no emotion. “When you were with Angelus. Did you kill?”

If Spike is honest with himself – and these days, he doesn’t have much reason not to be anymore – he can admit he expected the question to come out eventually. He just would have thought it would be much sooner. He gives Connor a pointed look until he glances at him. “What do you think?”

Returning his eyes to the road, Connor nods lightly. Mere seconds pass before he asks, “Do you still kill humans?”

Spike would like to be able to smile, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. “The soul tends to get in the way of that.”

Connor’s head whips toward him. His eyes are wide again, so wide all Spike can see is clear blue. “You have—”

A honking horn startles the both of them. Spike tries to grab the wheel but his hand closes on Connor’s instead. “Hey, watch the road!” 

Together, they return the wheel to its proper position, and avoid ramming the car into the truck Connor was passing. His attention is back on his driving, but Spike leaves his hand where it is just a little longer before drawing back. When he does, he clenches his fist, as though to capture the warmth that seeped into his skin.

“You’ve got a soul. Like he does.”

Spike’s fist tightens. He grimaces. “Not like him, no,” he says as calmly as he can manage.

Connor gives him a quick smile, and Spike wishes it were not so understanding. Not so bitter, either.

“I used to say that too,” Connor says softly after a moment. “That I was nothing like him. But I am.”

The last words are no louder than a murmur, but Spike can almost smell the salt behind them. He could push this, push at Connor’s walls a little more until they break and he finally gets to the core of it all, but he finds that, at that moment, he doesn’t want to. He has a feeling he will need to, sooner or later, but maybe soon doesn’t have to be tonight.

He reaches over and fluffs Connor’s hair. It’s soft as down. “You’ve got better hair. So do I for that matter.”

Connor bats his hand away with a quiet laugh. Spike has waited for this laugh since the first night, he thinks. It was worth the wait.

They fall back in that same easy silence. There are fewer cars on the road, now, and even with the pools of light falling on the asphalt, it all seems very dark. Spike doesn’t mind. He’s glad Connor doesn’t seem to mind either. But there’s more than darkness waiting for them at the end of this road, and maybe he needs to remind Connor. 

“Keep up at this speed and we’ll be in LA in a couple hours.”

Connor jerks up as though a jolt of electricity had run through him. In a matter of seconds, the car loses thirty miles per hour, almost dropping back to the legal speed. “I don’t want to go to LA,” he mutters. “I don’t want to see him.” He gives Spike a dark look, as though daring him to say Angel’s name. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Spike shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Nobody’s forcing you to do anything.”

“I guess not.” Connor’s hands relax a little on the wheel.

“So what do you want to do, then?” His thumb tapping lightly on his thigh, Spike glances at a road sign they’re passing. “We might find stuff to slay in the next town. Ocean side resort, always draws—”

“No,” Connor says sharply. His scent is suddenly sour with guilt. Angel’s son to the core. “Not the ocean, no. I’ll just turn around.”

He takes the next exit, and reenters the highway immediately, this time going north. For a moment, he stays close to the legal speed limit, a good boy following his mother’s teaching, Spike thinks to himself, but that doesn’t last. Little by little, his face hardens, his eyes grow dark, and the car speeds up again. 

“What did he say?” he finally asks.

Spike doesn’t need to check, but he does anyway. “Angel?”

A muscle ticks in Connor’s cheek. “Yes. Angel. What did he say last night?”

“Thought you didn’t want to talk about him.”

The glance Connor throws at him is almost as icy as his words. “I don’t. And I’m still asking.”

Having played enough for now, Spike relents. “He told me Darla was your mum. Which threw me in for a loop because she wasn’t the maternal—”

“What else?” Connor interrupts sharply, his voice like a blade slicing silk.

Spike rolls with the verbal punch. “He was pissed that I’d taken the Viper.”

A quick frown flutters on Connor’s face. “It’s his?”

“The company’s, more like, but he thinks he’s the boss.” Foolish of him, that, but it’s not like he’s asked Spike’s opinion about Wolfram & Hart. From the moment he started haunting the place, Spike has known that it wouldn’t last. Angel and his pet humans will only bend so far before they start breaking. The old Spike would have stayed to enjoy the show. Spike kind of hopes he can help them hold it together. That’s why he’s still there. One reason, at least.

“What else?” Connor asks again when Spike doesn’t add anything.

Spike considers his options. Some things he won’t say. He promised himself, if not Angel. He’s not ashamed – he leaves that to the brooder in chief – but he’s all too aware of the power words hold. 

“Told me to stay away from you,” he says at last.

The corner of Connor’s pink lips rises just enough for the result to be called a smile. “But you came back.”

“I do that a lot, yeah. Also, I don’t take orders from him.” He frowns to himself, then amends, “Not unless they make sense.”

Connor’s fingers drum a fast beat on the wheel. “Why didn’t he want you to come back?”

“He thinks you’d be better off not hunting vamps. Or not hanging out with one.”

“Too late.” 

Spike answers Connor’s snicker with a grin. “Guess so, yes.” He pauses, then shrugs and adds, “And he’s afraid I’m going to hurt you more than he already did.”

He watches for the reaction and is not disappointed. Connor glowers at the road. “He’s a fucking hypocrite.”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Spike agrees after swallowing a sigh. “But he really meant that.”

Connor scoffs. “Well unless you plan to—”

He stops abruptly and Spike can hear him grind his teeth. 

“Plan to do what?” he pushes.

“Nothing,” Connor snaps. “Forget I said anything.”

But Spike can’t let it go this time, not when the truth he’s been hunting lays so close. “What did he do to you?”

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about him.” Connor’s hands are so tight on the plastic covering of the wheel that Spike is sure he’ll leave an indentation.

“Connor—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, all right?”

He looks at Spike with dead eyes that promise violence if Spike doesn’t let it go. The thing is, Spike was never scared of a bit of violence. And he has never liked cowards.

“You’re right,” he sneers. “You _are_ just like him. Just as stubborn, wallowing in self-pity, woe is me and all that poncy crap. Afraid to lose your soul like him if you let yourself be happy for two fucking minutes? Newsflash, kid. The tick tock in your chest means your soul is going nowhere. So stop with the mournful act and—”

The tires screech on the asphalt. Spike has to throw both hands against the dashboard to avoid cracking his head open on it. The car comes to a stop on the emergency strip on the left side of the highway, and before Spike can say one more word the driver’s door bangs shut behind Connor.

For one second, he’s scared senseless that he’ll have to tell Angel his son walked into traffic to get away from him. Thankfully, there are no headlights coming toward them as far as Spike can see. Not that he intends to let Connor stay out in the middle of the highway.

He gets out of the car and goes after him, a demand that he stop acting like a brat already rising to his lips. But Connor turns to him, and the despair on his face is like a punch to Spike’s guts. 

“He killed me, all right?” Connor shouts. His shaky hands rise to his neck and he holds them there for an instant. “He slashed my throat with a knife.”

Spike doesn’t want to believe him, but he has to. Everything Angel said is starting to make sense. If he could, he would puke.

“Gave me a brand new life,” Connor continues, his voice shrill and cutting. “New family, new memories.” 

He comes back to Spike, each step staggering on the asphalt. Spike eyes the lights coming in the distance behind him. They’re still a long way off, and he and Connor are on the edge of the dividing strip, but he’ll feel a lot better when they’re off the road. Before he can suggest that, though, Connor reaches him and grips the sides of his duster with both hands.

“It worked,” he croaks. There are tears gleaming in his eyes, but not on his cheeks. Not yet. “I was _happy_. For the first time in my life I was happy.” His hold tightens and he pulls Spike just a little closer. “But it was all a lie.”

A car passes in the far right lane, honking as it goes. Connor pushes Spike back and lets go, turning his back on him and walking away again. In the distance, Spike can now see two sets of headlights. He goes after Connor.

“I told him!” Connor cries out toward the sky. “I told him lies can’t save anyone! But I was wrong and I was happy. For a while I was. Until the damn spell broke.”

Spike’s hand settles on Connor’s shoulder and he flinches at the touch, then tries to shake it off. Spike tightens his grip and doesn’t let go. “Connor… calm down, pet.”

“They always play with magic. But it never works the way it’s supposed to!”

Spike squeezes his shoulder gently. “I know.”

He’s shaking under Spike’s hand, and now Spike can smell his tears. 

“The memories came back. All of them. I betrayed him. Stuck him in a box and…” He takes a gulp of air in between his sobs. “And Cordy. She didn’t love me, not like she loved him, but she...” 

The cars are approaching. Spike pulls him back toward the emergency lane. “Connor… come on, now.”

But Connor doesn’t seem to hear him. “It was all so messed up. It wasn’t her anymore, and she wanted me to kill Angelus, but then he was himself again and I still…” He whimpers, and Spike’s hand clenches tighter on his shoulder.

“Calm down. You’re all right. Everything’s—”

In a flash, Connor escapes his grip and faces him. His eyes are wild and so full of pain… “Can’t you see it’s _not_ all right? It was all my fault.” He clutches at his chest as though to tear his own heart out and the fabric of his shirt rips. “If I hadn’t been born, none of it would have happened. So many people died! And I was going to add to it. I was going to blow it all up and he… he—”

Spike has heard more than enough. He grabs Connor’s face between both his hands and pulls until their mouths are crushed together. Connor is absolutely still against him, not participating in the kiss but not pulling away either. His lips taste of salt. When Spike breaks away, Connor blinks furiously, his brow knitted in incomprehension.

“What…” he says, but he doesn’t seem to know how to finish.

Spike’s thumbs run over his wet cheeks. He gives Connor a thin, hesitant smile.

“’T was that or slapping you, and I think he’s right. You’ve been hurt enough.”

*

“You ready to go home?”

The word slashes at Connor’s heart like a broken bottle, shards of glass embedding in his flesh. What is home? The farm in Utah where he was supposed to grow up? The lava lakes of Quor-toth besides which he learned to crawl? The hotel and Angel telling him the door is always open – telling him to get out of his house? The house whose key is in his pocket, on a silver key ring shaped like an R? 

“I don’t have a home,” he mutters.

Spike’s hands are still cupping his face. They’re cool, and wet where they covered his tears. Connor thinks he should pull away. He should wipe his face and stop acting like a damn kid. He should do something, certainly. But he only stands there and looks at Spike’s slight frown, wondering what he thinks.

“Where do you kip?”

On a mattress made of pelts in a cave high in the mountain, where few predators roam. On the floor of a crack house, a knife in each hand but no way to guard against the dangers of a strange new world. In a comfortable bed in his father’s house, in his own room, behind a door he can close – and with more guilt to fill that room than his heart can contain. In another comfortable bed in another bedroom, soccer posters on the walls, an old model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling, his night table placed over the burn in the carpet from when he and Jason Ashfield lit up a stolen cigarette. In a dorm room that’s much too noisy when his roommate is there, and much too quiet when he isn’t.

Which answer does Spike want? Connor shakes his head, and Spike’s hands fall away to settle on his shoulders. Some part of Connor’s mind is aware of the cars passing so fast, so close. Another part is glad that Spike isn’t letting go.

“I haven’t slept since the memories came back,” he says. “I _can’t_ sleep.”

Spike’s grip tightens on his shoulders. “My point exactly.” 

He pulls Connor forward and guides him back to the car. Small steps. As though Connor were a child. He wants to scoff; he’s never been a child. He bites his bottom lip and says nothing when Spike rests a hand on his head and helps him into the passenger seat, leaning over him to snap in the seatbelt before he closes the door. Connor rests his forehead against the window. The car’s engine starts with a purr. He can feel the acceleration in his guts, and the world outside becomes a blur.

“You live on campus?” Spike asks after a long while.

Connor’s answer is no louder than a sigh. “Yeah.”

“What’s the address?”

What will happen if he doesn’t answer, Connor wonders? Will Spike get tired of him? Will he just leave him somewhere in Stanford, and hope that Connor can find his own way? Will he bring him back to LA?

He shivers at the thought. The address spills from his lips. 

The rest of the ride takes place in silence. Connor feels strangely empty, as though airing out those wounds that have been festering inside him soothed them, and started healing them. He has no illusions, though. The scabs will break open at a sharp movement or sharper word, and he will bleed again.

At some point, he closes his eyes. He doesn’t sleep – he can’t sleep – but he lets the movement of the car and the gentle rumbling of the engine rock him, like he rocked his baby sister once, so small and yet so big in his arms that could barely close around her, like he would have rocked his child if she had not been anything but a child.

When the car stops, it’s habit more than anything else that makes him reach for the seatbelt buckle, makes him open the door and step out. Spike is already standing on the sidewalk, peering at him with something that’s too much like worry. Connor looks away, and sees the entrance to his dorm. He starts walking toward it without thinking, a hand already looking for the keys in his pocket, barely aware that he has a shadow. They take the stairs to the fifth floor. One step after the other; Connor could continue all night, but the sheer force of habit drags him to his door. He stands there for a second, keys in hand but no clue what to do with them. Cool, gentle fingers take them from him and the latch creaks as it always does. The door swings open and a hand at his back pushes him in. The small contact disappears when he passes the threshold, and he glances back to see Spike standing there, head tilted just so, one foot in and isn’t that odd?

“Gonna invite me in?” Spike asks.

Connor wants to say no. He knows he shouldn’t invite a vampire into his home. That’s the most basic lesson he ever learned, even before he learned to use a stake. 

The thing is, though… this is not his home.

He invites Spike in, and watches him slink past the door, a flick of his wrist pulling the key from the lock. He closes the door, drops the keys on the closest desk, and considers the darkened dorm room for a moment. Two beds, two closets, two computers, a kitchenette and bathroom. Not home.

“Well?” he says when he turns back to Connor, an eyebrow cocked expectantly. “Get in bed already.”

“I’m not tired,” Connor protests, but he sits on the edge of the bed to untie his shoelaces.

“There. That’s a good boy.”

The words are patronizing as hell and Connor, heat rising at the back of his neck, tries to conjure up a glare as he looks up at Spike. The mocking smile he expects isn’t there, and he looks away again, confused. Shoes and socks come off, then his shirt. He’s vaguely embarrassed that the t-shirt underneath features Donald Duck front and center – souvenir from Disneyland; he’ll have to go there for real, some day. He’s even more embarrassed when he realizes Spike isn’t going to turn away.

“Go on. Finish undressing and get in bed.”

He shakes his head, rebellious. “What for? I won’t be able to sleep any—”

“Get in bed, Connor.”

Spike’s voice hardens just a touch, rises even less than that, but Connor’s hands are moving before he knows it. He tugs the belt undone, then turns sideways as he slips off his pants; it’s bad enough he’s undressing in front of Spike, he’s not going to turn his back on him on top of it. Leaving the pants to fall on the floor, he climbs into his bed in his boxers and t-shirt, his back to the wall, the pillow held in front of him as an illusory shield.

“Good boy,” Spike patronizes him again, and again Connor wants to call him on it. And again he doesn’t.

Spike shrugs out of his jacket and sits on the second bed, his eyes on Connor the entire time.

“Easier to sleep with your eyes closed,” he says.

“I told you, I can’t—”

“Can’t sleep, yes, I heard you the first time. How ‘bout you try, at least?”

Connor blinks. Then he blinks again, more slowly. His eyes refuse to stay closed. All his senses are screaming at him of danger – vampire – killer. How is he supposed to relax?

“I’ll keep talking so you’ll know where I am,” Spike says, amusement coloring his words, and Connor realizes he has voiced his discomfort. “Close your eyes, now.”

Again, his voice hardens a little bit. Connor stifles a snort. How is he supposed to sleep if Spike is talking? 

Yet, he closes his eyes.

True to his word, Spike starts talking at once. “So your mom taught you to drive, huh?”

Connor’s hand tightens on the pillow. “She’s not my—”

“Your adoptive mom, then,” Spike interrupts smoothly. “What’s her name?”

Connor doesn’t want to answer. He has no reason to. And still, the name passes his lips and it’s too late to catch it back. “Colleen.”

The other bed creaks and slow steps hit the linoleum floor. “She nice?” 

The voice and steps are moving away. Connor clenches his eyes shut so he won’t be tempted to open them. “Yeah. She made me cookies when I came back on campus.”

“That sounds nice, all right.” Spike sounds like he’s by the window, next to the kitchenette. Wood sliding on wood confirms that. A rush of humid air flows in. So much for the air conditioning, Connor thinks. He understands when he hears the snick of a lighter, and Spike’s first drag on his cigarette.

“She used to make them all the time when I was a kid,” he hears himself say, unsure why he even bothers. “Except that never happened.” He hasn’t touched the cookies since he arrived and shoved them out of sight in a cupboard. 

“You remember it,” Spike replies. “So it happened.”

Connor grimaces against freshly laundered cotton. He’s not a fan of doing laundry, but he had to find something to do, last night. “It’s not that easy.”

“It can be if you let it.”

But it’s not. It really is not.

Is it?

As Connor turns the question around in his head, Spike starts talking again in between deep pulls on his cigarette.

“Got any siblings?”

Connor has given up on trying not to answer. He has given up, also, on questioning the words that come to his lips. It is not that easy, really, but for now he can pretend it is. “Little sister. She’s a pain.”

Spike chuckles quietly. Connor peeks at him with a barely open eye. He’s leaning against the window, the hand that holds the cigarette resting on the sill. He taps the ashes outside as he says, “They usually are.”

Connor yawns and closes his eyes again. “You’ve got a sister too?”

“Not really mine, but she’s as good as.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dawn.”

Does Connor’s voice sound like rainbows and caramel fudge too, when he says his sister’s name? He tries, just to know. “My sister’s is Erin.”

It does, he is amazed to realize.

“She’s still your sister, isn’t she?” Spike asks very quietly.

“I…” There’s a lump in Connor’s throat. He has to push the words past it. “I can’t think of her as anything else.”

“Proves she’s real,” Spike says, matter of factly. “And so is the rest.” 

Could it possibly be that easy?

“Erin...” The name rolls on Spike’s tongue, like he’s savoring a drink. “Your family’s Irish?”

Connor would shrug, but his body feels heavy and slow. “Four or five generations back.”

“Probably did it on purpose.”

The words are so quiet that Connor isn’t sure he heard right, just like he isn’t sure of what they mean. “What?”

“Angel. He’s Irish. Never heard him wax lyrical about the motherland?”

“He’s…” His eyes still closed, Connor frowns. He tries to roll onto his back, only to be stopped by the wall. “But he doesn’t sound…”

“Used to,” Spike says, answering the unfinished objection. “Back in the days. Lost the brogue sometime this century.”

“I didn’t know,” Connor mutters. “I thought I knew everything about him.”

“Hard to know everything about one person.”

Connor buries a smile as bitter as dark chocolate in his pillow. Does Spike realize how true his own words are? He keeps asking questions and unraveling Connor’s lives like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn, but he’ll never get to the end of the thread. Connor doubts he could find it himself. He’s not sure he wants to.

“You can go, now,” he says, yawning again. He raises his head and looks at Spike. “I’m OK.”

Spike never even turns to him, just keeps smoking by the window. “Not like I have anything better to do. I’ll stay ‘til you fall sleep.”

Connor pinches his lips to stifle another yawn. He doesn’t release them right away. He has just realized that Spike has stayed away from one topic since the highway, but they can’t avoid it forever. “Are you going to tell him?” he murmurs.

He’s relieved when Spike doesn’t pretend not to know whom they’re talking about. His face turns toward Connor, but it’s too dark for him to make out his eyes. “Tell him what exactly?”

“That I freaked out.”

Seconds trickle by. “Do you want me to tell him?”

“No,” Connor answers at once, placing all his determination in that word. 

He doesn’t want Angel to worry about him – or at least, not any more than he already does. Spike simply nods, and Connor lies down again. If he closes his eyes, he thinks, he just might find sleep waiting for him with open arms that will hold him tight and safe. But there’s something else he needs to say. He has told Spike more than he ever wanted to tell anyone, tonight, but there is more still he has to say to tell the whole story.

“He did the right thing.”

Spike straightens up. The red pinpoint of the cigarette slips from his fingers and falls through the window. He doesn’t seem to notice. “What?”

“He did the right thing,” Connor repeats. “I’d have killed other people if he hadn’t. I’d have killed Cordelia.” His voice drops to a murmur. “And myself.”

For a long moment, he’s sure that Spike is going to argue the point, and protest that there must have been another way. Isn’t there always? 

That’s why he’s surprised when Spike just nods again. “But you’re better, right? Not going to off yourself when I leave?”

Connor rolls his eyes at him, then finally close them again. “No.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And as he finally lets sleep take him home – home, where his mother bakes cookies while his father teaches Erin to play the guitar – home, where his father sleeps in a chair by the fire, the Good Book resting on his lap – home, where his dad always waits for him to come back - Connor isn’t sure whether he says the rest aloud or simply thinks it. “I wouldn’t do that to him.”

*

Angel’s mind is as cluttered as his schedule. He has had a lot to do, lately, as the pieces of the puzzle are slowly falling into place. It won’t be much longer, now. He hopes it won’t. He’s not sure he can continue to play this role very long, not sure he can keep looking at Gunn and see little more than reproach. Wes barely even meets his eyes anymore. And Lorne… He has been very careful not to sing, hum or even whistle anywhere near Lorne. He tries to avoid his friends, tries to cut short any meeting they initiate. All part of the plan. He wishes he could tell them. He will, soon enough, but they won’t thank him for the choice he’ll give them then.

Of all of them, he thought that Spike might have the best chance of figuring something was off before the time came to dance that jig. But in the past few days Spike has been too distracted to pay much attention. It won’t last, or so Angel hopes. It’s not that he wants Spike underfoot at all times – God knows he can’t deal with the aggravation on top of everything else – but he’ll feel better when Connor’s world and his own are separate again. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. The truth lies elsewhere, unacknowledged.

As Angel steps out of his office that afternoon, accompanying some client or other out, his eyes sweep the lobby. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he turns to Harmony. She starts blabbering about his next appointment, but Angel barely listens, drumming his fingers against the top of the counter.

“Have you seen Spike?” he cuts in when his patience runs out.

She gives him her usual look, the one that says if he weren’t her boss, she’d call him rude, fling her hair over her shoulder and shimmy away.

“You shouldn’t believe those filthy rumors,” she says with a little roll of her eyes. “The girls in the steno pool are just jealous. Not about him, you understand, but that I got promoted and—”

“Harmony—”

“It was just the one time,” she continues, unabated. “And even then, it was more a spur of the moment than—”

“Harmony!” Angel winces at how loud his voice rises. He can hear the quiet chatter behind him come to a lull, can practically feel eyes turning to him and wondering what set him off this time. He drops his voice to a normal level again. “I didn’t ask if you’ve been seeing Spike. I just want to know if you’ve seen him _today_.”

“Oh. My bad.” She gives him a half-contrite, half ‘I know the answer to this’ smile. “Nope. Didn’t see him.”

Angel grits his teeth and walks away, burying his hands in his pockets. Trust the idiot to be around when Angel doesn’t want to see him, and not to be when he does. Angel has no doubt that Spike went back to Stanford the previous night. He wishes he could have gone back too, and kept an eye on both his boys. If they share anything, it’s their uncanny ability to attract trouble. The both of them hunting together… That can’t be good. He can’t help but wonder if that’s why Spike isn’t around today. Maybe they crossed path with something nasty. Maybe they’ve been hurt. Maybe—

He pushes the call button of the elevator and closes his eyes as he waits, chasing away the flash of metal tarnished by blood.

Gloomy what if’s and maybe’s trail behind him like smoke as he goes down to the garage. As soon as the elevator doors open, he sees the Viper. He had left instructions about the car the previous night, but he knows Spike got it out anyway. He didn’t really believe he wouldn’t. 

Slow steps take him to the car. His fingers brush against the roof before he opens the driver’s door and climbs in. Hands resting on the wheel, he takes a slow, deep breath through his nose. He’s not sure what he’s looking for. Blood, maybe; the telltale sign of a rough night. There’s none of that. Just Spike’s scent, leather and cigarettes – although he does seem to have better sense than to smoke inside the Viper. And next to it… Angel closes his eyes and breathes in again. Yes. There it is. Connor was in the car, too. He knows his son’s scent as well as he knows his own.

Where did they go, he wonders. What for? And why isn’t Spike around so he can get answers out of him?

His next appointment is twenty minutes away. For the next fifteen minutes, Angel just sits in the car.

*

The moon is high in the sky already when Spike parks in front of Connor’s dorm. He looks at the building, his eyes searching for the fifth floor, but a fading trail has already caught his interest. Connor is out, and as Spike starts following his scent, he wonders, like he has wondered all day, in what state of mind he is.

Even after Connor fell asleep the previous night, Spike stayed in the small dorm room, unsure what to do. Stay and remain trapped inside all day when Connor might need some time to himself, or go and leave him alone when he might need someone there for him? He finally left in the early hours of morning, a race with sunrise that he very nearly lost, promising himself he’d be back as soon as he could. The whole thing would be easier if Connor lived down the street, though.

It doesn’t take Spike very long to find him, sprawled on a bench, his head tilted back and looking up at the sky. Spike gives a tentative sniff; there’s no salt in the air. He's a little relieved.

“Hey there.”

Connor doesn’t move. “Hey.”

The entire drive back, Spike has tried to figure out what he would tell him; what questions he would ask. Maybe they’re beyond questions, though. If Connor wants to tell him more, Spike has a feeling he will, on his own, without prompting. And if he doesn’t… well, Spike has heard enough the previous night. It’s not a pretty picture. He doesn’t need to know all the details, not any more than he needed to know all the details of how Angelus broke his princess’ mind. 

“Feel like killing something?” Spike asks after a few seconds, drawing a chuckle from Connor.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” He sits up and looks at Spike with eyes as clear as a summer sky.

Spike smiles, for more than one reason. “Probably not.”

“Let’s go, then,” Connor says as he jumps to his feet.

They start walking, and Spike is struck by how familiar this is starting to be. Not just the path they are following toward darker streets and potential kills, but the comfortable silence, the mismatched strides that keep them side by side, the sense of expectation hanging between them. He’s done this before, patrolling every night, a heartbeat striking the measure to his steps. It was never like this in Sunnydale, though, never so… easy. 

He could damn well get used to this.

They hit their first back alley before Connor clears his throat and says, sounding a little sheepish, “I was wondering if you’d be back. I kinda figured you wouldn’t, now that you know how fucked up I am.”

The barest hint of self-derision pulls a small smile to Spike’s lips. He’ll take that any day over brooding. “Looks to me you’re doing better.”

“Getting some sleep helped.”

Spike nods but doesn’t reply. He knew it would from personal experience, not that Connor needs to know that. For a long time, after the soul, he stopped himself from getting any real sleep, dozing off only minutes at a time and waking up in a panic each time he did. He didn’t think he could face the dreams that were bound to surface if he let himself sleep too deeply. The truth, he realized when his body rebelled, was that memories were even worse than dreams. In dreams, at least, there was the possibility of an escape.

“And what you said,” Connor continues after a little while. “That helped, too.” His voice drops to something quiet and a little embarrassed. “I called my parents this afternoon.”

Spike eyes him curiously, wondering why he’d be embarrassed. Because he denied they were his folks yesterday? Or because he thinks he’s denying his connection to Angel now? “They’re still your parents, then?”

“Yeah. I think…” Connor lets out a big sigh. “I think I need them to be. It’s like…” He falters again, as though looking for his words. Spike stays quiet and lets him find them. “Their Connor is the sane one. He’s got to be there to balance the psychopath.”

The self-derision is gone, and Spike is not sure he likes what's left behind. It’s dark and bitter – and he’s heard Angel use that tone before while talking about Angelus and the soul. 

He forces a chuckle out and tries to lighten things back a bit. “Now I’ve know a few psychopaths in my time, even had a stint as one, and you, pet, are nowhere near that.”

A quick glance shows him, by the suddenly too harsh light of the moon, lips that curve into something that can’t be called a smile. “You wouldn’t say that if we had met last year.”

He waits for more. Connor certainly sounds like he wants to prove a point – but what point? That he can be dangerous? Spike has known that since the first night he came looking for him. That he has done things he regrets? He already mentioned a couple, and Spike is rather sure worse is yet to come. 

It doesn’t come quite yet, though, because they finally find their first prey of the night. The word must have spread through the vamp population that someone is on the hunt: as soon as the vamp sees them, he steps back from the screaming girl and starts running. Connor reacts as though he had been in the starting blocks and waiting for the gunshot. Spike follows, five strides behind, and makes sure he stays back. He could use a bit of a fight to loosen that knot between his shoulders, but he has a feeling Connor needs it more than he does. It doesn’t take him long to catch up with his prey. Cornered, the vamp faces Connor and prepares to fight back. Spike positions himself to block any chance of retreat and, arms crossed, he watches. 

He’s hard long before the fight is over. He’s pretty sure Connor is too. Pity it's too soon to do something about that.

Straightening up from a pile of ashes, Connor makes his stake disappear back up his shirt’s sleeve. He’s very pointedly not looking at Spike as he asks, “Did you see him today?”

It took him long enough, Spike thinks, and in the same instant he wonders: will Angel always intrude on their time together? He’s rather certain he already knows the answer to that, and it makes his reply come out a little more sharply than he meant it.

“No.”

Connor comes back toward him with a small frown. “You didn’t go to Wolfram & Hart?”

“I did.” They start walking again. Spike would like to stop that discussion there, but he doubts Connor will let him. “Had to,” he mutters, “to drop off the car and get it back. I just didn’t stay long enough to see him. I’d have put my fist in his face if I had, and then he’d have wanted to know why. Not that I always have a reason.”

“I told you,” Connor says, on the edge of exasperation. “I know why he did it and he was right.”

“Right.” Spike snorts. “Of course. That’s why last night you—”

A sideways glance stops Spike in his tracks. Connor’s face is hardening, his eyes narrowing… Not a good path to be treading on. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, releasing the anger he feels toward Angel. Or at least some of it. The rest has roots too deep in Spike’s mind to be pulled out so easily.

“I know why he did it too, you know,” he says when he has calmed down. “I’ve seen him do it before. Things get complicated and he bails out.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Connor stop walking. He stops as well and turns to him, finding his expression strangely rebellious. Strangely defensive. Strangely… proud.

“That’s not true. I’ve seen him confront things he knew he couldn’t beat, but he didn’t stop fighting anyway.”

Spike pulls out his cigarettes and shakes his head, both at what Connor is saying and at the stray thought that he used to sound just like this, back then, when he was talking about Angelus.

“Not talking about fighting.” The flame of the lighter comes to life and he pulls in a deep drag of nicotine. Small comfort. “I know he’ll fight ‘til the day he’s dust.” His lips curl in a bitter smile. “Or human again. I’m talking about the people he cares about. He’ll run from them before trying to confront whatever problem he has with them.”

Connor crosses his arms and frowns. “He didn’t run from me.”

Their eyes clash for a few seconds before Spike drawls, “Didn’t he?”

A muscle clenches in Connor’s cheek. Spike knows he has hit home, but he can’t be sorry for it. If the kid wants to defend his father, it’s his right. They always do defend him, after all. But Spike refuses to play that game. He has played it long enough. Not any longer.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Connor says darkly.

Spike exhales a puff of smoke that rises slowly between them. Connor grimaces and takes a step back. “You’re the one who raised the topic, pet. I’d just as soon talk about something else.”

Connor shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away. “OK.”

“OK.”

They start walking again, and for a while, Spike can feel Angel’s shadow following them. He even catches himself darting glances around, as though the bastard were really there and not merely in their minds. He gives a shake of his head and scoffs, drawing a questioning look from Connor, but he doesn’t care to explain himself.

The tension remains a little longer between them, until Connor clears his throat and asks, the harshness out of his voice again, replaced by something not unlike hesitation, “I meant to ask... What happened to Fred?”

A pang of guilt rings through Spike. They couldn’t save her.

Except they could have.

Having choices sucks, especially since the soul.

“Some ancient demon decided to take residence. It’s not Fred anymore.”

Connor doesn’t ask for details, and Spike is grateful. All he says is, “I liked her.”

Spike’s lips curve around his cigarette. “So did I.”

“Except that one time when she zapped me with a tazer. I didn’t like her much that day.”

Spike looks at him, wondering if he’s joking. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Fred had it in her – beneath the sweet smiles, she was every bit as tough as Illyria is – but Connor sounds almost… ashamed. Why would he be ashamed about that? Unless… Spike decided not to ask questions, but that doesn’t mean he can’t lead Connor to giving him answers.

“You managed to piss off Fred? Heh. Never underestimate a teenager.”

Connor shrugs, ducks his head. “Yeah. I’ve done some pretty stupid things.”

Not there yet. Spike pushes a little more. “Haven’t we all?”

The pushing backlashes. Spike wants to curse himself. He should have seen it coming. Connor’s eyes find his, curious and eager. “What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

The last thing Spike wants to do is answer that heavily charged question. He could drop the subject altogether, challenge Connor to share first, or simply lie. But there’s something in Connor’s gaze. A warning of sorts. Spike has been given as many free answers as he’ll get. He’ll now have to pay for them in kind.

He just has to decide how badly he wants to know more about Connor.

With a sigh, he flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and shoves his fisted hands in his pocket. “Falling in love with a Slayer comes to mind,” he says, then snorts derisively. “Not that I could help that.” He pauses. The words are already burning his tongue before he even voices them. But after all that Connor shared with him, he supposes he can do the same. “Getting a soul thinking she’d love me back if I did, that’s got to be my stupidest mistake.”

He doesn’t look at Connor, doesn’t want to know what he thinks, and is glad when he can’t read any emotion in Connor’s quiet words. “You regret it?”

Spike chuckles. “Every day. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Enough sharing from him, he thinks. Time to get what he paid for. “What about you? Your stupidest mistake?”

“I…” Connor’s scent is suddenly filled with so much guilt and shame that Spike absently rubs at his nose. “I’ll tell you another time.” And before Spike can protest, he adds, “It’s dead tonight. Wanna spar?”

Spike’s first reaction is to demand an answer, but there are clouds in Connor’s eyes, and Spike doesn’t feel like causing another storm. He nods. Talking with their bodies is always easier.

*

The first round of final exams has just started, and Connor wishes it would be over already. He’s not sure why the faculty decided to give them a few days off before the ordeal, but he hopes the experiment won’t happen again next semester. He knows he would have used the free time better and been ready if he hadn’t been hit full on by that van first, and by his entire life soon after. There’s no do-over, though. Not this time. Not again.

He has a lot to study for, yet a couple of hours after nightfall he goes out, back to the usual bench. It’s still early, but he doesn’t mind waiting for a little while. Hands in his pockets and eyes on the sky, he tries, yet again, to sort through his memories. It’s slowly becoming easier to do. He has stopped trying to label one set as ‘pretty lies’ and the other as ‘ugly truth’. Instead, he just tries to accept them all at face value. Everybody, he supposes, has favorite memories, and memories they would rather forget. He just has two lifetimes’ worth of each.

He has come to realize that, even if he could, he wouldn’t want to forget everything from his original life again. The flip of the coin is, not every day of his new life is worth remembering.

He’s five years old and screaming at the top of his lungs in a department store. He’s five years old, tied to a tree, and biting down on his bottom lip not to scream so he won’t attract predators. Both these memories, he shoves at the very back of his mind, burying them deep beneath happier times.

He’s twelve years old and spending his summer at a space camp. Every night, the staff wakes them all a little after midnight, and they go down to the field. Telescopes are already in place, pointing up at the sky. Connor’s mind is full of stars and beauty. He’s three years old and lying on his back by his father’s side. Above them, the night stretches like the leathery wings of a dark bird, but his father points, and names, and Steven learns not to be afraid of darkness anymore. The stars are always there, his father says. Even when the sky is cloudy. Even during the day. Like he will always be there for Steven, even if Steven can’t see him. These memories, Connor frames in silver and protects under glass.

He’s eighteen, and as scared as he is excited. Tracy said yes. Tonight. Finally. They fumble for a bit before they finally figure it out. The first time is good, but he’s not sure she enjoys it as much as he does. But the second… He must finally start doing something right because her eyes widen, and these quiet, breathless moans rise from her lips. She holds him tight, afterwards, so tight, and says his name like it’s a prayer. She breaks up with him before the month is over. He’s eighteen, and more scared than he is excited. Fire is raining from the sky. He’s going to die, he’s sure of it – they are all going to die. Soft words, soft lips, softer caresses comfort him. Cordelia promises him something real, but he knows, every time she says his name and he hears his father’s, that this too is nothing but illusion. Yet he holds her tight and clings to that illusion as though it were his salvation. There’s nothing else. He’s eighteen, and more scared than he has ever been. He’s trapped in a strange place, dead people all around him and a demon roaming the building. A demon that, somehow, is connected to him. A demon he can’t kill. But suddenly, he’s not alone anymore. Suddenly, there are arms around him, holding him tight, and when his father says his name, there’s no anger left in his voice. Only relief, and love. He has already learned not to think too much about Tracy, and returns that memory to the folder of regrets where it belongs. His night with Cordelia is a treasure of sharp, broken crystals that cut his soul every time he thinks her name; he lays it to rest in a velvet-lined box and closes the lid – but he doesn’t try to lock it. His father’s love stays at the forefront, to mask the blood-stained knife that proved once and for all it was real.

Following stray thoughts and unconnected memories, Connor waits for two hours past the time Spike usually shows up. When, his limbs stiff and his mind buzzing with words and feelings, he finally gets up from the bench and strides away, his hands are fisted deep in his pockets and there’s a sour taste on his tongue.

Maybe he is too fucked up to hold Spike’s interest, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

The entire time they roam through the Italian capital and chase shadows and illusions, Angel wonders why Spike is so quiet. Although quiet is not the word, maybe. He’s certainly as boisterous as ever, and his outrage that Buffy – _their_ Buffy – is dating the Immortal matches Angel’s. But through it all, there’s something else in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, something he’s not letting out.

Angel would wonder what it is he isn’t saying, but he’s all too aware that there’s a topic that hasn’t come up at all during the entire trip. He expected Spike to raise it first, but as the return plane nears Los Angeles, he figures it’s now or never. 

He downs another one of these ridiculously small bottles and says, as casually as he can manage, “You haven’t said a word about Connor. How is he?”

Spike’s head snaps toward him and the glare he throws at Angel is pure loathing. “Not dead. Asshole.” He empties his own bottle without looking away, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “If I wasn’t so tired I’d kick your sorry ass.”

Angel is confused. Very confused. And he’s pretty sure he hasn’t had nearly enough alcohol to get drunk yet. “You said you knew—”

Spike snorts. “I lied. But now I do.” He scowls some more. “Not that you being a bastard is a surprise.”

Angel flinches at the predictable onslaught of guilt. He has to look away from Spike. “If you knew everything,” he says tiredly, “you’d know I had to.”

“So says the kid,” Spike says dryly. “That doesn’t make you any less of an asshole.”

So Connor… understands? Hope flutters its wings for a second – no longer. Hope for what anyway?

“I’m not discussing this with you,” he says, reaching for another miniature bottle. “How could you possibly understand—”

“Understand that you like to make decisions for other people?” Spike cuts in, his words slicing like a steel blade. “That you’d rather be suffering alone than share your pain with the people who love you? You’re right. How could I possibly understand that. It’s not like you ever pulled _that_ one on anyone else before.”

Spike is still glaring, but behind the loathing, behind the words and what they don’t say, Angel guesses just a glint of something shiny and warm, something he never expected to see in these eyes. He blinks, wondering if he’s imagining things.

“Spike—” he starts, wary, but before he can figure out what comes next, Spike snorts.

“And I meant Dru. And Buffy. Don’t get any ideas.”

The glint is gone, but Angel is now sure – however ephemeral, it was real. He leans across the empty seat between them and cups Spike’s face in his hand even as he presses a peck to his lips. He draws back just as fast as he leaned in.

Spike frowns, his tongue sneaking out to touch his bottom lip. “What was that for?” he asks, forgetting to be angry.

“Don’t know.” Angel shrugs. “I must be drunk.”

Spike picks up two of the still full bottles and hands him one. Tongue in cheek, he says, “You should get drunk more often.”

At once, Angel knows what he’s referring to. He sees the shards of glass on the floor of his office as clearly as he sees the boy that wasn’t there. He braces himself for the shame and despair, but they don’t strike as deep as he was expecting. He really must be getting drunk.

He gives Spike a nasty look for raising the subject. “Idiot.”

Spike is utterly unfazed. He raises his mini bottle in a toast. “Asshole.”

“Shut up, boy.”

“Make me Daddy,” Spike says, and his eyes are full of laughter.

*

For a second – just a second – Spike is sure that Angel is going to demand he drop his pants, lay over his lap with his bare ass in the air, and count. He doesn’t even have time to consider how much he should protest before Angel shakes his head once, uncaps the ridiculously small bottle in his hand and drains it in one long swallow. The thread of pure steel that ran through his last words is gone when he says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Spike’s mouth twists in frustration. “Why not? You’re not drunk enough?”

“No.” Angel lets out a dry chuckle, as brittle as old rust, that does nothing to hide his discomfort. “I really am not.”

Spike considers him for a little while, readying arguments and insults as he would a sword or a stake before a fight. Before he can launch the first assault, though, the stewardess comes to announce they are about to land. She clears the empty bottles and makes sure they fasten their seatbelts, and in no time at all she’s wishing them a pleasant day as they disembark inside a hangar, where California’s morning sun doesn’t reach. The limo is already waiting for them, and takes them straight back to Wolfram & Hart. 

The head they failed to retrieve beats them there, and the note that accompanies it only adds insult to injury. Stupid Immortal.

“You know,” Spike says when he figures Angel has brooded long enough about it and he’s tired of staring at the empty office, “moving on might not be the only option.”

Angel only replies with a small grunt.

“I mean, we could move back as well.”

At that, Angel throws him a wary glance. “I don’t think—” he starts, but Spike doesn’t let him finish. He knows all too well what he would say and he doesn’t want to hear it’s a bad idea. Of course it is. It always was. That doesn’t mean it’s not _right_ , too.

“Just the opposite. You think too much. Shut off your brain for a while and—”

“No.”

Angel pushes away from the desk and walks across the office, as though putting distance between him and Spike might make his words less seductive – because they _are_ seductive, or he wouldn’t be reacting so sharply. He goes to the liquor cabinet, but seems to change his mind halfway to it and goes to stand by the window instead. But the blinds are drawn, and there is nothing to see there.

“You need to unwind,” Spike says, laying the words bare. Mocking or teasing now would help nothing.

“ _I_ need it?” Angel says, giving Spike an incredulous look. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“It works out fine, then, doesn’t it?” He slides off the desk, leaving his duster behind him as he slinks toward Angel. “We both need it, we both want it…” Standing next to him, he widens his eyes just a little too much, tilting his head just so. He drops his voice an octave or two as he asks, “Don’t we, Daddy?”

Angel sighs quietly. “No,” he murmurs and looks away. “Not after what happened last time.”

“Last time?” Spike repeats in the same quiet voice. “You mean, when I made you feel good?” He raises a tentative hand and hesitates just a second before he rests it on Angel’s chest rather than lower. Angel flinches at the touch but he doesn’t pull away. “Don’t you want me to make you feel good again, Daddy?”

“Spike.” The word is a cross between a warning and a resigned sigh. 

As stubborn as he is, Angel does want this, Spike is sure of it. Or at least, he wants to be sure of it. He may be used to rejection, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. He hesitates again, but the small tremble in his body is entirely manufactured when he steps closer to Angel, trapping his hand between them and pressing his forehead against the crook of Angel’s neck. His lips are half against his shirt and half on his skin as he asks, “Won’t you call me your boy?”

Angel is solid and still as marble against him – and just as unresponsive. Spike is not fooled for an instant. He drops his voice to a quivering whisper and resorts to dirty tactics. “Don’t you love me, Daddy?”

As soon as the words pass his lips, Angel moves, so fast that Spike doesn’t have the beginning of a chance to react. Angel’s hands are tight on either side of his head, just on the edge of being too tight, holding him so that they’re practically nose to nose. From this close, there’s no way Spike could miss the fiery golden flames that consume Angel’s eyes, no way he could mistake his scent as anything other than anger.

“Never,” Angel says, his voice shaking as badly as his hands. “ _Never_ doubt it, son.”

*

Angel stares into his boy’s eyes for a long moment, until he’s convinced that his words have sunk in, at last. Then he kisses him, soft and slow, his hands still splayed on either side of his face.

“Do you understand?” he asks when he pulls away.

His boy nods, his eyes as endless as a winter sky. “Yes.”

Angel clucks his tongue, and clouds drift in. “Yes what?”

His boy is trembling between his hands, just a little, just enough to let Angel knows that he wants nothing more than to please him. “Yes Daddy.”

“Good boy.” The praise rolls almost too easily off his tongue. For a second – not even that – he wants to take it back, wants to stop it all. Maybe, once, this had a place in his life, maybe it even had a reason, but the circumstances have changed. He’s different, and his boy…

His boy is still looking at him with those too wide eyes in which it’d be all too easy to lose himself, still waiting to hear what he wants, waiting to know what proof Angel will give to his claims of love. One of Angel’s hands drops from his boy’s face, but the other stays in place, stroking his cheek lightly. His boy’s eyes narrow to slits and he leans into the caress, like a cat rolling over to be petted a little more.

“Let’s see how good you can be,” Angel murmurs, and he has his boy’s attention at once. “I want you to get in that elevator all by yourself and— 

“But—”

Another cluck of his tongue. “Quiet now. Daddy’s talking.” He pauses, and nods when he isn’t interrupted again. “Go to the penthouse. You’re going to undress, wash up, and then lie down on the bed and wait for me.” He hardens his voice and eyes before adding, “And no touching what’s mine. Do you understand?”

His boy tilts his head just barely, pressing his cheek again into Angel’s palm. “I’m not sure, Daddy. What is yours?”

 _You are_ , Angel wants to say, but strangely the words sound like something Angelus would say — even though Angel also knows quite well he never would. Dropping his hand to roughly cup his boy’s straining cock, he says, just shy of being harsh, “ _That_ ’s mine.”

The soft whimper that passes his boy’s lips is as sweet and sticky as cotton candy. Angel wants to taste it so bad that he flicks his tongue at those pretty lips.

“Do you know what to do?” he asks, pressing once more against the hardness in his hand before he lets go.

His boy blinks very fast before giving a little nod. “Y-yes Daddy.”

“Then run up and be a good boy. I’ll join you soon. And if you’ve been good I’ll be very proud.” 

But his boy doesn’t move. Shuffling his feet, he looks at Angel from beneath lowered eyelashes. “What if I mess up?” he asks, and the worry in his voice sounds genuine.

Angel raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to disappoint me. Do you?”

His boy shakes his head just once. “No Daddy.”

“And you don’t want me to have to punish you.”

The answer that Angel expected doesn’t come. Instead, his boy drops his gaze to the floor as though he has just been caught doing mischief. Sliding a finger beneath his chin, Angel forces his head up until their eyes meet again. He recognizes the guilt all too easily. 

“Do you, boy?” he asks mildly.

“No Daddy?”

He hears the hesitation in those words, but pretends he doesn’t. He slides his hand to the back of his boy’s neck and then to his back, and pulls him along toward the elevator, letting go after two steps. “Go then. Be good.”

After a short stop by the desk to retrieve his jacket, his boy climbs into Angel’s private elevator. As the doors close on him, his lips have the smallest tilt to them, and Angel sighs softly, knowing he’s up to something. Of course he is. 

Rearranging his cock with a slight wince, Angel picks up the bag on his desk and walks over to his office door. He intends to find Gunn and have him take care of the head delivery, but he doesn’t have to go very far. Gunn is crossing the lobby toward him, flanked by two demons whom Angel suspects are part of the Goran clan. Angel nods distractedly throughout the introductions, and tries to hide a grimace when he is thanked for taking care of the matter himself. Thankfully, the demons don’t have much time to lose, and he is soon waving them off, hoping never to see the Capo’s head again – with a body attached to it, or without.

“And one war averted,” Gunn says grimly as he watches them go. “Moving on to the next.” He tries to hand out a clipboard to Angel. “There’s been some strange happenings in—”

“Gunn?” Angel interrupts. “Can it wait? Jetlag, and a rough night before that. I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.”

Without waiting for Gunn to reply, he turns on his heel and starts back toward his office, reluctantly stopping by Harmony’s desk. “Harmony, I’m not there. Cancel my appointments. No calls. No visitors.”

She gives him a haughty look, the one he has labeled ‘Why do I have to work when you do nothing at all?’, but for once he doesn’t care. Not that he usually cares much about what Harmony, of all people, thinks of him.

He starts unbuttoning his cuffs and shirt in the elevator, but his hand stills on the last button when he reaches the penthouse. The first thing he sees as the elevator doors open is a shoe, lying on its side, three feet inside the living room. The other one lies similarly abandoned a few inches away. Angel’s frown deepens when he notices the jacket; it has been thrown over the back of the sofa, but it still trails on the floor. Further in is a rumpled shirt.

He follows the trail of clothes like he would crumbs of bread, but in the story he knows he’s the big bad wolf and not the courageous hunter. He rolls his sleeves back as he goes, already knowing he won’t want to be hindered. He finds his boy sitting on the bed, propped by the headboard against pillows. His cock stands proud and hard against his belly, and as Angel demanded his hands are nowhere near it. His hair falls in soft wet curls over his forehead. His smile is wide, childlike. 

Standing only a step inside the room, Angel crosses his arms. He stares until the smile fades away, replaced by a slight, worried frown. 

There’s a tremor in his boy’s voice when he asks, “Didn’t I do good, Daddy?”

Angel’s words crack through the bedroom’s still air like a whip. “You left a mess all the way through my apartment.”

The pout is almost cute. What gives his boy away, though, is that his hands are utterly still on the bed, not the least bit nervous. He knows what’s coming just as well as Angel does. “You didn’t say—”

“Don’t even try,” Angel snaps. “I know you did it on purpose. You wanted to make me angry.” 

Caught, his boy swallows the rest of his protests. He drops his eyes and _now_ his hands start pulling and tugging restlessly at the sheet. “Not…” His voice is a broken murmur. “Not angry, Daddy.”

Angel steps forward, coming to stand by the bed where he looms over his boy. “Then what did you want?” he asks coldly, and watches his boy’s shoulders hunch as though making himself smaller will help anything now. As though this is not exactly what he hoped for.

“I don’t know, Daddy.”

“I think you do. I think you’ve been wanting it for a long time.” Reaching out, he cards his fingers through his boy’s wet hair, combing it back and forcing his head up until their eyes meet. “You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, drawing Angel’s eyes to that offered throat. Smooth, pale and perfect. Angel’s fangs _itch_.

“Yes Daddy.”

He forces his eyes back up to meet his boy’s. “And you want… no, you _need_ to be punished.”

There’s no reply other than the light of relief in those clear blue eyes. Relief that Angel understands or that he’s not shying away from this? Clenching his fingers on the wet hair beneath them, he tugs – not too hard – until his boy scrambles off the bed. Without prompting, he folds to his knees at Angel’s feet, his face tilted up and waiting, eagerness, excitement and just a hint of fear battling in his scent.

“I shouldn’t have spoiled you,” Angel says as he sits on the edge of the bed, his thighs parted. “I only made it worse. But I’ll fix it now.” His cock is tenting his pants, and he is tempted to pull it out and make himself comfortable, but decides not to. Not yet. This is about giving his boy what he needs. What Angel needs or wants will have to wait a little longer.

Still on his knees, his boy shuffles forward, his eyes intent on Angel’s tented pants. Angel stops him before he gets too close – before he can shatter Angel’s resolve.

“Get up,” he says on a tone that suffers no arguments. “On my lap, boy.”

His cock jutting out in front of him, his boy stands and comes to him. Angel takes his arm and pulls him across his knees, arranging him just the way he wants him. The tip of his cock brushes against Angel’s thigh, leaving a wet trail. His upper body rests on the bed; it can’t possibly be comfortable, but he never complains. Looking down on the pale, smooth expanse of skin offered to him, Angel runs his right hand over his boy’s shoulders then down his spine, trailing a single finger down the crack of his ass to ghost over his opening. His boy lets out a quiet moan and Angel snaps back to what he is doing. He rubs his ass in slow circles, feeling anticipation coil beneath his touch. 

“Now you tell me, my boy. What do I have to punish you for?”

His boy takes a sharp breath. “I… I made a mess?”

The first smack on that tight ass gives a sharp sound, but it’s almost gentle compared to what is yet to come, just a warm up for the both of them. Angel adds a second smack to the other cheek, just as mild, and keeps it at that. This is by far the smallest offense. “You certainly did. What else?”

“I called you bad names in the plane.” The words seem to come more easily, now.

“Not just in the plane,” Angel points out. He strikes a little harder this time, just a little, and finds a comfortable rhythm. His boy’s flesh is smooth beneath his palm and fingers, and it seems to rise to meet each blow. “What else?”

“I hit you. When… when we were in the club. But it was an accident.”

Angel’s pace gradually increases, and with it his boy’s quiet moans. He snorts. “How about all the times it wasn’t an accident?” The next smack is like thunder. “How about when you tried to kill me?”

His boy grunts, and his hips are pushed forward by the next blow, his cock pressing hard against Angel’s thighs. Angel parts his legs a little more without ever losing his rhythm. The sound of flesh on flesh is like a heartbeat, strong and steady. 

“Wasn’t… wasn’t really trying,” his boy whimpers. It’s less a denial than it is an apology. “Not _really_.” 

His hand falls harder at the lie, drawing a hiss that sounds anything but repentant. “Yes you were. And that’s all right except for one thing. You’d have hurt if you had managed to do it. You can hurt me all you want, son. But I won’t have you hurt yourself.”

His palm stills, cupping his boy’s reddening ass. His other hand cups his face where it presses into the sheet, and demands that he looks at Angel. “Do you understand?” 

His boy blinks. His lips move soundlessly for an instant before he can answer. “Yes Daddy.”

Angel nods, satisfied. “So what else do you need to be punished for?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Think harder,” Angel admonishes, and adds a single blow for motivation’s sake.

“I…”

Angel can hear him gulp. His hand stroking lightly where he last hit, he waits patiently for the words to come. When they do, it’s in a whisper just loud enough for him to catch.

“I took her from you.”

This series of blows is the harshest and the longest yet, raining down in a quick succession from the top of his thighs to just below his lower back. Angel’s hand hurts every time it meets flesh, but he doesn’t slow down, not until sharp pants and uncontrolled gasping tell him it’s enough.

“You did,” he said, his voice uneven. “But she was never yours.” He ends with a last hit that has his boy keening.

“I know,” he says, his voice broken, and he gulps down air as though it were fresh water after a long stay in the desert. “God, I _know_ …”

Angel runs his hand slowly up and down his boy’s trembling body. “Shh… breathe now.” His words are soft, now, as soothing as his touch. “That’s it. Calm down.” Slowly, the tremors ease beneath his hand, though he can still feel his boy’s needy cock against his thigh. “There… that’s my good boy. Are you ready for the last ones?”

It’s only when he hears himself speak the words that he realizes they’re not done yet. His hand stills in surprise. His boy, on the other hand, sounds like he expected it.

“What… what are these for, Daddy?”

Angel’s hand rises of its own accord, falls down the same way, heavier than ever. “This is for putting me in that box. That’s for calling _him_ your father.” Angel doesn’t even know if he means Angelus, Holtz or Laurence Reilly. Too many men have a claim on his son, and he hates it. Hates himself for letting it happen. His hand falls three times more, and these are the hardest blows yet. The smacks aren’t quite loud enough to cover his boy’s harsh panting, though. “And that’s for making me hurt you.”

One last hit and Angel stops. He lays his trembling hand on the flushed flesh that trembles just as much. He closes his eyes tight. This hurt the both of them, and the physical pain is only the tip of the iceberg.

“Can I…” There’s a hitch in his boy’s voice. He starts over. “Can I sit up, Daddy? Please?”

“Yes. It’s over.”

Angel opens his eyes and watches as, gingerly, his boy pushes himself to his feet. He then straddles Angel’s lap, his legs on either side of him and his cock, thick and flushed with blood, between them. He winces when Angel cups his ass in his hands, but he doesn’t make a sound. Eyes wide and bright, he slowly leans in and trails his lips along Angel’s cheeks, first one then the other, kissing along the wet tracks left by his tears.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks in a small, worried voice.

Angel looks at him and sees concern and tears to match his own, though they haven’t spilled yet – and won’t, not anytime soon. Always trying to be strong, even when it’s all right to yield; that’s his boy. He kisses his eyelids, then his lips. “Yes, son. You were very good. Very brave. All is forgiven.” But even as he says the words, he knows them for the lie they are. No one can or will forgive _him_. 

“Can I make you feel good now, Daddy?”

Angel nods. Words are just beyond his grasp, and he doesn’t want to speak anymore, not when his throat is still burning from the lie, but he knows he has to. He’s the Daddy. He reaches out beyond himself and does what he must.

“Go ahead and undo my pants,” he says as he leans back a little, and eager hands flutter against his fly. One word after the other, he guides his boy, directs his mouth – “Very good, son. Make Daddy’s cock nice and slick.” – and his fingers – “Another one, now, so Daddy won’t hurt you when he slides in.”

And when he does slide in, when his son lowers himself onto his cock, head thrown back and body already shaking in anticipated pleasure, Angel’s only thought is that _this_ is where he belongs. He grabs his boy’s slim hips, hold him tight as he flips their bodies over, and slams into him, desperately trying to meld with him. Small but strong hands urge him on just as much as frantic pleas for more, Daddy, please.

Afterwards, when his boy is still trembling but those honey words have stopped spilling from his lips, Angel holds him close, both arms around him and no intention to let go. Ever.

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

“I can’t, I have to—” 

The deeper, more confident voice is jarring. Angel refuses to listen to it just like he refuses to relinquish his hold on his boy. “I said sleep, son. Daddy’s here. Sleep.” 

A few more seconds of childish stubbornness, and the fight drains out of both body and voice. “Yes Daddy,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes, his head resting once more against Angel’s shoulder.

And as sleep slowly claims his boy, Angel’s hand moves up, running gently over his back, completely relaxed at last, and finally tangling in his hair. It’s still damp from his shower, just barely, and falling over his forehead, but not in his eyes as it so often did in another life. 

Angel is tired too – not physically jetlagged as he claimed earlier, but mentally exhausted. The tension of the trip has settled in his bones, piling on top of the stress he has been feeling lately. It will all be over soon, one way or the other. Maybe that’s why he let himself be pulled into this game. Spike was right, as strange as that notion may be. Angel needed to let go. He needed it much more than Spike can imagine. 

Or _can_ he? Has he guessed yet that something is going on? Angel doesn’t think he has been around Wolfram  & Hart enough to notice, but then, this is Spike. Spike who notices so much when he cares about something, and so little when he doesn’t. Spike who didn’t seem surprised in the least when shapes and colors blurred enough in Angel’s mind that he started punishing one of his boys for the other’s faults. 

A sudden thought pulls a frown to Angel’s brow. Why wasn’t Spike surprised? Surely, he didn’t think the entire game was about the other boy, did he? That wasn’t the case. Angel saw him, before that. Only him. 

He almost wants to wake up and tell him – and call him an idiot if he thought otherwise. 

Another thought stops him.

What if Spike asks whom Angel saw _after_ that first slip? Whom he fucked?

He continues to run his fingers through Spike’s hair, gently, slowly, and can only hope that, when he wakes up, Spike won’t ask any more questions than he did last time.

*

Spike indulges both himself and Angel until nightfall. It has become a rare occurrence that his bedmate doesn’t either flee or kick him out when they’re done. He had almost forgotten how nice it could be.

When the last bit of sun disappears, dropping the bedroom into darkness, Angel’s arms open, like the petals of a flower that only blooms at night. Spike gets out of bed and quickly cleans up before getting dressed. Vampire constitution being what it is, the worst of the pain is already fading, but that doesn’t mean the long drive ahead of him is going to be pleasant. That’s all right. _He_ has no desire to forget what happened here. Returning to the bedroom, he looks at the bed. Angel still hasn’t moved.

“Don’t brood too much about it,” he says, keeping his words low. “We’re both old enough to know what we were doing.”

Angel’s eyes find his, though he doesn’t say a word. After a few more seconds, Spike gives him a small nod, a quick smile, and leaves. The elevator takes him straight down to the garage. He hops into the Viper. A little over three hours later, he gets out of it and finds his trail. 

Connor is by the lake again, sitting cross-legged in the grass, a handful of flat rocks in front of him. Spike sits down next to him, arms thrown out behind him to take some of the weight off his stinging backside. It may have been a while, but Angel hasn’t lost his touch.

“Hey,” he says, watching Connor’s fingers chip away at a bit of dirt on the rock he holds.

Connor doesn’t respond, nor does he look at him. Spike would almost wonder if he’s back to being a spook if not for the slight tightening in Connor’s jaw, or the rising sourness in his scent.

“You mad?” he asks, raising a curious eyebrow. “At me?”

Connor turns the rock between his fingers three times before he answers, ice cracking in each word, “Do I have any reason to be?”

Fast fingers steal the small rock from Connor and draw his glare to Spike. “Listen, it’s not like I wanted to disappear on you—”

“And yet you did that quite well,” he sneers. Getting to his feet, he strides away so fast that Spike has to hurry to catch up with him, the flat rock falling forgotten behind him.

“I’d have called but—”

“But Wolfram & Hart don’t have a phone book. Or a working phone. Maybe you could have sent a memo.”

Spike stops and considers the stiff back walking away from him. He’s not sure if he’s more surprised or awed. When was the last time someone cared enough to be angry he stood them up? “You _are_ mad at me,” he whispers, taken aback.

Connor whirls back and _glowers_. No doubt whose son he is – and for this, both his parents contributed equally. “Well I did say I wondered if I was too fucked up for you to keep showing up. And next thing I know, you stop coming. Of course I’m mad at you, you… you…”

A grin forces its way to Spike’s lips. “Asshole?” he offers. “Bastard? Blood sucking fiend?”

Connor doesn’t even give him a hint of a smile or an eye roll. “Idiot!” he snaps, and Spike is a little amused to hear one of Angel’s favorites.

“Aww, don’t be like that, pet.” 

Connor starts walking again with the same angry stride, although maybe not as fast as before. Spike falls into step with him and lights up a cigarette. 

“Was out of the country,” he says after his first drag. “Kind of a surprise trip.”

A quick sideways glance is Connor’s only reaction for a few seconds, until curiosity wins and he asks, still coldly enough to chill Spike to the bones, “Where did you go?”

“Italy,” Spike answers promptly. “Rome. Nice city. Business trip, though, not pleasure.”

Connor swallows the second piece of bait like he did the first. “What kind of business?”

The frost is slowly thawing out, so Spike doesn’t mind too much answering. “Remember that not quite sister I told you about? Well, _her_ sister was in trouble.” He snorts derisively and adds under his breath, “Or at least we thought so.”

“We,” Connor repeats flatly, and Spike winces. Of all things, he had to pick up on that. “You mean, you and Angel.”

Spike scratches at the back of his head. No use to lie now. “Well, yeah.”

“Who is that girl that you two would go halfway across the world for her?”

 _Ah damn._ That had not been part of what Spike was ready to give up in lieu of an apology. But Connor has smelled blood in the water, the sharp look he gives Spike when he hesitates makes that quite clear, and he’s not going to let it go now.

“She’s… a Slayer, actually.”

“A Slayer.” The word rolls on Connor’s tongue as though he had never heard it before - but he has. Of course he has. And he remembers. “The one you got your soul for?”

Spike lets out a lungful of smoke in one long sigh. Smart kid. Maybe it’s time to start being careful about what he says around him. “That’d be the one, yes.” He searches desperately for a new topic to distract Connor with, but it’s too late. It was too late the instant he admitted being with Angel, he realizes.

“What’s her name?”

Spike sighs again. “Buffy.”

Gradually, Connor’s steps slow down until he comes to a stop and turns a frown to Spike. “That’s the girl you said my father was in love with.”

Much too smart. He might be the death of Spike, yet. “That’d be the one for that too.”

There’s something in his eyes, something that demands an explanation even if he’s not saying another word. The last thing Spike wants is to explain anything more than he already has, but before he knows it he’s saying, “Listen, it’s not like—”

“You have no explanation to give me,” Connor cuts in, and starts walking again. 

They have almost reached his dorm building, and it seems clear that Connor intends to go in – alone. Spike didn’t drive all this way to be sneered and pouted at. He could have had that at Wolfram & Hart.

“If I didn’t,” he says, catching Connor’s shoulder and holding on until he faces him, “you wouldn’t be so mad.”

Connor scowls. “I’m not _mad_.”

“Yes,” Spike says slowly, as though talking to a small child. “You are.”

Connor crosses his arms and raises his chin defiantly. “What if I am? What are you going to do about it?”

*

“You’re kidding!”

His wide eyes going back and forth between the car and Spike, Connor forgets to be mad. The keys feel very cold in his hand.

Spike grins. “I really am not.”

Part of Connor wants to believe him. Maybe that’s the same part that once believed in Santa Claus, and that secretly enjoyed the romantic comedies his girlfriend dragged him to; the part that believes life, at the core, is beautiful. Another part doesn’t want to believe, or rather is afraid to. Maybe that’s the part that remembers these flower bushes on Quort-toth – the most vibrant color, the most delicate shapes, the most deadly scent – and that learned, time after time, that getting attached to someone or something only means hurting that much more when it’s taken from you.

“But it’s not even yours,” he protests. “You said—”

“Just drive me back to Wolfram & Hart and I’ll find someone to make it legal.”

He means it, Connor realizes. He means all of it. The keys are warming in his closed hand. It’s still too hard to believe, though.

“But what will _he_ say?” he asks, his voice suddenly a little worried. He remembers taking his father’s car without asking. He remembers, also, taking his father’s favorite knife. Both times he was punished, in wildly different ways but he never repeated his mistakes. He’s taken a lot more than a car or weapon from his dad, though. Unconsciously, he scratches at his neck.

Spike leans against the car and crosses his arms. The grin has faded, replaced by a small frown that follows Connor’s scratching fingers. He realizes what he’s doing and forces his hand down. 

“You let me deal with him,” Spike says coolly. “He’s not moronic enough to blame you for what I do.”

“I can’t accept,” Connor says, a last token protest he doesn’t really mean, not when he’s holding the keys tight rather than handing them out to Spike. “It’s too much. It’s…” He gives up and breaks into a wide grin. “Awesome.”

Spike laughs and reaches down to open the driver side door. He just gives Connor a look that says, “Well? Are we going then or not?” and it’s all Connor can do not to bounce like an excited kid. It’s the most extravagant gift he’s ever been given.

Other than his own life, that is.

This time, he doesn’t wait for Spike to needle him with remarks about driving too slow, and pushes the car - _his_ car – to the limits of what it can do. It’s probably much too fast, and there’s no way he’s not going to get stopped by the police if he keeps it up, but the sheer exhilaration of it drowns out his fears. Besides, Spike doesn’t look concerned in the least, so why should he be?

“What are you going to call her, then?” Spike says after a little while. “A beauty like that needs a name.”

Connor nods at once. “It does, yeah. Let me I think.”

He doesn’t truly need to think about it. He has known for years what the perfect name for a car as sweet as this one would be. For once, his mind doesn’t even trip over the fact that this is a lie, that cars and music are still new things to him. What stills his tongue for a moment instead is the slight fear that Spike might mock his choice. For some reason he doesn’t want to examine too closely, he really wants him to approve.

He won’t know what Spike thinks if he doesn’t say the name, though, so he finally voices it, quiet and just a little reverent. “Sharona.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Spike’s face turn to him, and can hear the smile in his voice. “The Ramones. Nice.”

Connor chuckles, both from relief and from feeling a little silly at being relieved. “Actually, The Knack,” he says, glancing at Spike. “Original version’s the best.”

Spike sputters in outrage. “Are _you_ kidding me?”

They argue for a little while, and eventually Connor admits defeat. By then, he’s laughing so hard he has to slow down the car a little. He can’t recall the last time he has laughed like this. It’s been a while, too, since he found someone who shared – mostly – his tastes in music. They continue talking music and concerts all the way back to LA, and Connor soon can’t remember why he was mad at Spike.

His enjoyment fades when they arrive, replaced by a rising sense of apprehension. He’s a little wary of reentering the Wolfram & Hart building, not because he knows that these are not the good people his parents believe them to be, but because his dad might be somewhere in there. He’s still a bit surprised – a bit hurt – that Angel hasn’t come to see him. He would like to talk to him, but at the same time he’s afraid to. They’ve hurt each other as often with words as they have with their hands. Walking out of the elevator, he remembers his last visit to this building, and how easy it had been to talk to Angel when he was nothing more than Connor Reilly.

He wonders if it hurt Angel to talk to him like this, or if he was happy that Connor was finally the boy he had wanted him to be. His hands close tight enough that his fingernails break into his palms; he barely notices.

Connor’s eyes immediately go toward Angel’s office as he follows Spike into the lobby, but the door is closed, and the blinds drawn over the glass wall. Connor’s shoulders slump a little.

There is no glint of recognition whatsoever in Gunn’s eyes when he briefly looks at Connor before focusing on Spike again. Connor would have expected it to sting more than it does, but it’s not like he and Gunn were ever the best of friends. 

Gunn doesn’t seem all that convinced by Spike’s assertion that Connor is a friend of Angel’s and Angel wants him to have the car. “And is Angel _aware_ that he is giving his… friend a car that belongs to the company?”

Connor starts fidgeting a little, but Spike doesn’t seem bothered by the unvoiced accusation. “Does it really matter, Charlie boy?” he drawls. “It’s not like Mr. Save-the-world-by-selling-one-baby-at-a-time needs twelve cars, does he? Now someone to remind him that he’s got a long way yet to semi-god…”

He finishes with a smile that’s almost savage. Gunn doesn’t even blink.

“You know blondie,” he says blankly, “it’s amazing just how full of shit you are. What’s also amazing is that occasionally you actually make sense.” He picks up his phone, already dialing. “What car did you say it was?”

Ten minutes later, they leave Gunn’s office. Connor now has Sharona’s title, registration and proof of insurance in his pocket, all in his name. It’s almost too easy.

Connor looks at Angel’s office again as they walk by. It’s still closed.

“Want to say hi?” Spike suggests.

Connor is shaking his head and looking away before he’s even aware of it.

“You’re probably right,” Spike says when they climb in the elevator. “He’s been acting stupidly, lately. More stupidly than usual, that is. The A-Team, or what’s left of it, does not approve.”

A chill runs down Connor’s back. “It’s not… his soul, is it?”

Spike frowns. “Don’t think so. I’d know it if Angelus was back in town.”

“Would he try to kill you?” Connor asks, a little worried.

“He might,” Spike says, shrugging. “But I don’t think I'd be his priority.”

They’re back in the street, and Spike walks him back to where he parked the car. His car, now, legally. His parents are going to flip. How is he going to explain that?

The question fades in front of a much more serious one. He glances back at Spike, catching an unexpectedly serious look in his eyes. “What do you think he’d do?”

“I don’t know, pet. But I know what I’d do if he lost it.”

Connor swallows back a snicker. He knows what Spike would do too – talk with his fists. It happens to be how Connor would react as well. He wouldn’t particularly want to, but he’d _have_ to. If he’s learned anything from Angel, it’s that want and must are too very different things. “You’d take him down,” he says quietly.

Spike shakes his head. “No. I’d take you where he’d never find you.”

The words replay through Connor’s mind all the way back to Stanford.

*

The sun has set for no more than a few minutes when Angel looks up from a report to see Spike entering his office. He puts the report down and leans back in his chair, his fingers linking together in front of him. “Spike. How nice of you to drop by. Care to tell me where my Viper is?”

Spike saunters to the chair across the desk and slinks into it, throwing his feet up onto the edge of Angel’s desk. He grins widely. “I gave it away.”

Distracted by those offending shoes on his expensive desk and the many ways he could make Spike regret this, Angel doesn’t immediately catches on. When he does, he frowns, utterly perplexed. He can’t possibly have heard right. “You… what?”

“I gave the Viper away,” Spike repeats, and he seems to be enjoying quite too much the words coming out of his own mouth.

“You gave…” With a swipe of his hand, Angel pushes Spike’s feet off his desk. “It wasn’t yours to give away! What the hell is wrong with you!”

His grin unabated, Spike shrugs. “The kid likes that car almost as much as you do so I thought—”

“The kid?” Angel cuts in, his irritation draining in a flash. He sits a little straighter in his chair. “You mean Connor? You gave the Viper to Connor?”

Spike raises an eyebrow; the effect is the same as though he had called Angel a moron. “Didn’t I just say that?” He chuckles quietly. “He even named it already. His music tastes are much better than yours, by the way.”

There are words coming out of Spike’s mouth, but to Angel they are totally foreign and meaningless. “Why?” he asks, mystified.

“Why?” Spike’s eyebrow climbs a little higher. “Two words. Barry Manilow.”

Angel gives an impatient grunt. “No, why did you give it to him. I mean, that’s all right but…” He throws a mean look across the desk. Why does Spike always have to ruin everything? “If he needs a car you should have told me and I’d have bought one for him. A Viper is a little extravagant, maybe—”

“I don’t believe this.” Spike laughs. “You’re actually more annoyed because _I_ gave it to him than because I gave away your shiny little toy.”

Angel’s eyes narrow at that and he wants to call him an idiot – except, he’s right, and they both know it. But damn it, if anyone is going to spoil his son, it should be _him_!

“Why?” he asks again, unable to force more than that quiet word past his lips.

Spike shakes his head ruefully. “He was mad at me for hopping over the pond without telling him. I figured a bribe would help.”

Maybe somewhere in another dimension, these words make sense. But in this world, in this office, in Spike’s mouth, they don’t. “He was mad at you,” Angel repeats. “So you bribed him. With a car.” No, still no sense whatsoever.

“That the short of it,” Spike says with a shrug. “But he knows it’s yours. I expect he’ll say thank you when he comes in. Well-mannered kid.” Tongue in cheek, he adds, “He sure didn’t get that from you.”

Angel’s world continues to spin off its axis. He presses his hands hard onto the desk in front of him so they’ll stop shaking. “He’s coming?” he asks, the words catching in his throat. “Here?”

“Yeah. More interesting things to kill in LA. He’s late, actually. Said he’d be here at sunset.”

Spike glances back at the open door at that, as though expecting to see Connor stride in at that very instant. Angel can only stare at him. Details slowly add up in his mind – Spike’s repeated visits, how much he has learned about Connor already, how protective he was when he learned what Angel had done, Connor’s scent in the car and now this extravagant gift – and Angel doesn’t like one bit the picture that is forming in front of him. He slowly stands and walks around his desk.

“Are you fucking my son?” he asks, his voice calm and cool when inside him rage is about to boil over.

Spike doesn’t realize how close he stands to the abyss. He smirks. “Now that’s interesting. Why would you think I fuck him and not the other way ‘round?”

Angel’s reply is a roar. Both his hands come up and grab Spike’s neck as though by squeezing hard enough he will stop those appalling words from ever being voiced again. He pulls him to his feet. Spike grabs his hands and tries to make him let go. When that doesn’t work, he lunges forward, hitting his head hard against Angel’s. A gong bellows in Angel’s skull and he releases his grip. Spike’s hand flies to his own throat and he takes two staggering steps back. 

“Did you touch him?” Angel asks, each word a promise of pain.

Spike glares at him. “None of your fucking busi—”

A slap from Angel’s wide open hand hits his cheek with a resounding smack. “Answer the question, boy!”

The glaring doesn’t stop for a second, but Spike does answer in a quiet, resentful voice. “No.” He pauses then adds blankly, “Daddy.”

Angel seizes Spike’s jacket and pulls him close, shaking him a little for good measure. “When he gets here,” he says slowly, “you will tell him you need the car back. Then you’ll tell him you’ve got other things to do than spend your time with little boys. You _will_ stop fucking with his mind or I swear by the time I’m through with you, you’ll never want to touch another man again.”

The threat should be all the more effective for the fact that Spike damn well knows what he’s capable of, but the edge of fear Angel expects to smell in his scent fails to materialize. If anything, he smells and looks determined. His hands close over Angel’s and he tugs them off the lapels of his duster.

“He’s not a little boy,” he says, standing his ground, “and I’m not fucking with his head.” He raises his chin just a little higher. “I like him, all right?”

The feeling of dread starts rising inside Angel before the words even register with his mind. When they do, he feels like gagging. Spike playing with his son is one thing; a fully predictable, completely deserving of a beating thing. But this… 

“You…” His eyes widen and he looms over Spike. “Oh, no, no, you do _not_ like him!”

This is worse. Angel knows Spike. He knows how badly things can turn out when he takes a real interest into someone. This is the last thing he would have imagined – the last thing he wanted to imagine. He’s still hoping that Spike will pull away, that his face will break into a smirk and that he’ll mock Angel for falling for it. He hopes. And waits. 

But Spike is not moving. He’s not looking away. Instead, he says, very calmly, “Yes, I _do_ like him.”

Angel growls, and it’s all he can do not to shift to game face. “You don’t even _know_ him!” he snaps. “How could you like him!”

If Angel had any doubt about it, Spike’s eye roll and small snort prove he’s not intimidated in the least. “Know him better than you do,” he says, just on the edge of sneering. “And why wouldn’t I like him?” He raises his hand and ticks off on his fingers, “He fights like he was born for it, he’s smart, and he looks good. What else could I want?”

There’s one reason he’s not giving, and Angel has no doubt that it’s the most important of all. Connor is Angel’s. Taking anything or anyone that Angel claims as his has been Spike’s personal goal for far too long already. He’s just taken it one step too far. Angel is done talking. He lets his demon come to the forefront and before he has even fully shifted his closed fist becomes reacquainted with Spike’s face. The impact sends Spike flying back into the sofa. Angel strides to him, ready to strike again, but a light knock on the door and two quiet words freeze him where he stands.

“Hi Dad.”

For a second, just one painful second, he’s sure that his heart is about to start beating again. He forces the game mask down and slowly turns to find his son walking into his office, hands in his pockets and looking a little awkward. All thoughts desert Angel’s mind. He has dreamed of this moment – he has had nightmares about it. But even his worst nightmare didn’t involve Spike. Their eyes meet for the briefest instant before Connor’s slide behind Angel, crinkling a little in amusement.

“You OK, Spike?” he asks.

“Peachy.” 

Spike’s shoulder hits Angel’s as he walks past him and toward Connor. Angel is too stunned still to react in any way, all he can do is watch them stand side by side. If he hadn’t believed Spike yet, he would now. He has seen that look in his eyes before. The need to gag reemerges, stronger than before. 

“Your father’s not too happy about the car,” Spike says, throwing a nasty look in Angel’s direction. “Was always a bit too possessive about his toys.”

Connor snickers. “From what I heard, it’s not the car he’s feeling possessive about.”

Angel and Spike realize at the same instant that Connor must have heard Spike’s little declaration. They realize, also, that he doesn’t look bothered in the slightest by the news that Spike is attracted to him. Spike looks like Christmas has come early.

Angel’s nightmare is becoming worse and worse with each passing second. He has to do something. He has to warn Connor that this will not, cannot possibly end well.

He takes a couple of steps toward them, his hands rising as though to implore. “Connor, listen to me. You don’t know him like I do, he’s—”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Connor interrupts him, perfectly calm and composed. “Thanks for asking. Confused by the conflicting memories but I’m learning to deal with that. And how are you?”

This is not how Angel had imagined this talk would go; not at all. He has questions for Connor, and explanations about what he has done and why, but Connor isn’t asking about it, and in just a few words he has told him everything Angel wanted to know. He is fine. He is functioning with his too many memories. And he has called Angel ‘Dad’. Twice. Without anger or hate bleeding through the word.

“I’ll be better” Angel said slowly, “when you tell me you’re not falling for his act.”

He waits for Connor’s reply. And keeps waiting. What can’t be more than a few seconds seem to stretch into entire lifetimes before Connor finally says, his voice a little quieter, a little less certain than it was just a second ago, “What if I did fall?”

Angel takes the words like a punch to the stomach. A quick glance at Spike shows he is just as surprised – but pleased, too, a grin piercing to his lips while Angel’s fists clench again. 

Connor blinks and clears his throat, throwing Spike an urgent look. “I think you promised me fun things to kill.”

“I did, yes. You ready?”

“Yeah.” But rather than following Spike to the door, he looks at Angel again. “Thanks for the car, Dad. You should come and see me, sometime.”

He holds Angel’s eyes a couple more seconds before giving him a hesitant smile. Angel responds in kind automatically, but it’s too late; Connor is already walking out of his office with Spike. 

And Angel doesn’t know whether to weep or laugh.

*

As they leave the Wolfram & Hart building, Connor doesn’t say anything and Spike is content to follow his example. He’s still not completely sure what just happened in Angel’s office, and how much Connor overheard. He’s not sure either whether he’s hearing too much in what Connor said. Maybe he was just trying to rile Angel up – Spike understands that urge all too well. Maybe…

Maybe it’s better to wait and see.

They’re almost a block away from the building when Connor stops and looks back.

“Oh my God…” he breathes.

Spike takes in his wide eyes and pale face, then glances at the building, expecting to see it engulfed in flames at the very least. Nothing of the sort, though. He looks back at Connor and raises an eyebrow. “What’s with you, now?”

Connor swallows hard, his eyes turning to Spike. “I just… I just came out to my father.”

A bubble of laughter rises to Spike’s lips, but he manages to stifle it. The last thing he wants is for Connor to believe he’s making fun of him. Still, he can’t help but grin. “I thought I’d noticed, yeah.”

Connor returns his grin, a little hesitant and sheepish, and they start walking again. Connor seems too distracted still to be hunting properly, but Spike could track vampires and demons in his sleep. He leads the way down dark alleys that smell almost as bad as sewers. Not exactly the most romantic of first dates, he thinks, amused. Because this _is_ a first date, or as close to it as they’re going to get, complete with fatherly threats and awkward declarations. Now if Connor would just relax a little so that they could move on to the snogging…

Thankfully, Spike knows exactly how to help him relax. When they find their first vamps of the night, he takes a step back and lets Connor have a go at them while he sits of the hood of a beat-up car and smokes a cigarette. His eyelids at half-mast, Spike lets his mind drift a little, imagining what Connor might look like when he’s moving for pleasure rather than pain. Strength behind each of his movements; a bit of flash and sparkle, too; and that mindless focus… 

Soon, he thinks as he slides off the car, and needs to readjust himself before he goes congratulate Connor. “Nice moves,” he starts, but Connor stops him with a wild-eyed look.

“He’s going to kill me,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “For good this time.”

Spike’s good mood ebbs away a little. Of course. He should have known they weren’t done talking about Angel yet. Will they ever be?

“If anything, he’ll kill me for corrupting his boy,” he says, smirking, but Connor’s rising fear quickly lets him know the joke fell flat. He sighs. “Don’t put yourself in that state, now. It’s not like he’s homophobic.”

Connor’s hand starts rising toward Spike, but it falls away without making contact. He grimaces. “There’s a few bruises on your face that say otherwise.”

Spike shrugs. “Those? That’s par for the course, for us. Come on, let’s find something else to kill. Or to eat. ‘M feeling peckish. Did you have dinner?”

They’ve already had the show, Spike’s figures, so dinner would make this a proper date – not that Spike has gone on many of those. Connor, however, is not done worrying yet.

“Are you sure?” he asks, subdued, as they walk out of the alley.

“About what? How often we beat each other up?” He snorts. “Pretty sure, yes.”

Connor throws him a look, although Spike can’t begin to figure out what it means. “No, about… about him not caring if I like boys or girls.”

What was left of Spike’s amusement vanishes like snow in the desert. Talking about Angel is not what he had in mind for their night in town. 

“Vamps aren’t exactly picky about who they put in their beds,” he says, hoping that will be enough for Connor.

It’s not, but at least the topic shifts back to someone more interesting than the brooding wonder. “You sleep with both men and women,” Connor says slowly, and it’s not really a question.

Spike flashes him his best come-hither look. “Sleep usually comes later.”

Connor doesn’t even appear to notice the look or the innuendo. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, balled fists that stand out all too clearly. “What about him? Does he—”

“Don’t ask me,” Spike cuts in, close to snapping. “You want to know about your father’s sex life or lack thereof, you go straight to the source. And you be sure to tell me when you do, I’ll bring popcorn.”

Now wouldn’t _that_ be an interesting conversation, he thinks, and starts regretting leaving those two vamps to Connor. He could use a spot of violence now. Or a pint or two – blood or beer, either would work just fine. He has to settle for a tasteless draft and spicy wings; the bar doesn’t even have one of those blooming onions he’s so fond of. Sitting across from him in the small booth, Connor plays with his bottle of coke and watches him eat. He has already wolfed down a hamburger and fries. Any minute now, he’s going to ask why Spike eats human food when he doesn’t have to, Spike would bet on it.

“Have you ever slept with him?”

So maybe he would have lost that bet.

Spike washes down his last wing with a mouthful of beer, and tries to decide how to answer. He’s pretty sure that lying now would come back and bite him on the ass later. He’s also pretty sure that Angel would do a lot worse than bite him if he answered truthfully. Obfuscation it is, then. He shakes his head and smirks at Connor. “First lesson, pet. Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

Connor’s eyes narrow. They’re so lifeless, they almost seem gray. “You did, didn’t you?” He snorts, and his voice turns bitter. “Of course you did. I should have known. Everyone who’s interested in me wanted him first.”

Before Spike can say a word, Connor slides out of the booth and walks away, stinking of wounded pride. Spike rolls his eyes and finishes his beer. That went well. First date, first spat. Great progress.

He catches up with Connor a couple of minutes later, hoping he has had enough time to cool down. “Connor—”

Connor whirls on him when Spike touches his shoulder, and gives him a dark look. “You know, this is a bad idea.”

“What is, now?” Spike says as he lights a cigarette. He’s beginning to see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“This.” Connor’s hand gestures vaguely between the two of them. “Whatever this is. First girl I ever kissed OD’ed before the night was over. First woman I slept with…” He falters then, and pain flashes through his face. When he continues, his voice is quieter. “She fell in a coma. Never woke up. And you… I just _think_ I _might_ like you and my father’s already beating you up.”

Responding to that last bit would be the easiest way out of this, but Spike has a feeling there’s more than one ghost standing between them. Angel is one thing, and he’ll deal with that, but first… “She did.”

Connor frowns; this clearly was not what he expected. “What?”

“Cordelia.” Spike exhales smoke slowly before he finishes, all too aware that he has Connor undivided attention. “She woke up. And then she died.”

The pain flares back a hundredfold greater. “See?” he says, his voice thick with tears even if they’re not spilling on his cheeks. “You should stay away from me. You should get back to him. He’s who you want, isn’t he?”

If only things were that easy…

“Would I be here with you if I wanted him?”

The pain recedes, replaced by anger in Connor’s darkening eyes. Spike will take anger over pain any day. He knows how to deal with anger. Pain on the other hand…

“You just came to me because I’m his son,” Connor spits, and the words sound like an accusation.

“I did,” Spike says calmly. “I was curious. Never lied about that. But once I had the story, I didn’t have to come back, did I?”

Connor raises his chin; he’s all but grinding his teeth. “So why did you?”

“You know why. You heard me tell your father.” At Connor’s blink, Spike allows himself a small step that takes him just a little closer to that suddenly thundering heart. “Want me to say it again?”

Connor doesn’t say a word. His eyes answer for him, almost begging for a reassurance Spike is all too happy to give him.

“I like you, Connor,” he murmurs, and allows himself a small grin. “I like you a whole damn lot.”

He doesn’t expect Connor to reply in kind, so he’s not surprised when he doesn’t. But that barely there smile? The clear blue returning to his eyes? The way his tense shoulders drop just half an inch? That light note of sheer joy in his scent? For now, Spike doesn’t need any more than that.

*

Coming to LA tonight, Connor thought he would kill things more interesting than the run of the mill vampires he has been staking lately. He thought it would take his mind off his finals for a few hours. He thought, also, that he might get a chance to talk to his dad.

When, sometime between one and two in the morning, he looks back at his night, he can only admit that things went very differently from what he imagined.

He did get to fight a couple of weird looking, horned and scaled demons, but Spike stole his kills, complaining that Connor was taking too long to finish them. All in all, he has staked four vamps; not bad, but not what he had hoped for.

He did get his mind off school – but that is going to backfire on him something terrible, he expects. The problem, in the morning, will be to take his mind off what happened in LA, and focus back on his classes. That is _not_ going to be easy. Not after all he’s been told tonight – and what he wasn’t quite told, too.

He did get to talk with Angel, but that did not go as expected either. He still can’t believe he all but told his dad that he likes Spike. Not in so many words, maybe, but that is what he meant, and he’s pretty sure Angel understood.

Just like he’s pretty sure Spike did.

And damn if Connor had expected _that_.

Damn if he’s getting used to the looks Spike keeps throwing at him when he thinks Connor isn’t looking.

Damn if those looks don’t make him want to jump out of his own skin – don’t make him want to push Spike against the closest wall and see if kissing a guy is all that different from kissing a girl.

Damn if he knows where things are going to go from here.

“Want to call it a night?”

He’s nodding before Spike’s words even register with his mind. “Yeah. I should go—” He yawns so widely that his jaw cracks. “—back. Sorry.”

Spike gives him a half smile. “I let you go in this state, something tell me you’ll fall asleep and crash Sharona halfway there.”

“So I can fight vamps but not drive a car?” Another yawn spoils Connor’s slightly incredulous protest.

“The vamps, I can help with,” Spike points out. “A car crash, not so much.”

Connor almost expects him to drag Angel into this – there’s no doubt whom Angel would blame if Connor did have a car accident – but Spike has been carefully avoiding the topic ever since Connor dragged that repeated admission out of him. Not that Connor minds all that much; he’s still not convinced Angel won’t be angry that he and Spike… have a _thing_. He doesn’t even know what to call it, but he’s rather certain that’s not what his dad hoped for when he offered him a brand new life.

He’s also rather certain it’s not something he had ever hoped for, wanted or expected, not in any of his lives. Just like he’s certain he had never looked at a guy that way before. Shouldn’t he be freaking out? It’s not every day you realize you just might be— 

Spike’s fingers snap in front of his face and Connor jumps, startled out of his thoughts.

“That’s it,” Spike says decisively. “You’re crashing at my place.”

“I can’t!” There’s something that sounds too much like panic in Connor’s suddenly high-pitched voice. He tries to get a grip on himself. “I’ve got a test tomorrow and—”

“And you’re going to get a few hours of sleep before you go anywhere,” Spike cuts in. 

He gives Connor a look much different from the ones he has thrown at him all night. Those looks were purely predatory – a hunter deciding whether to strike yet or not. This one is cooler, darker, and suffers no contradiction. Connor has seen that look in his father’s eyes – in all three of them. He sighs, knowing it’s no use arguing.

“Just a couple of hours,” he mutters, sullen, and looks down at his feet. He shivers when Spike’s hand cups the back of his head for a second, pulling him forward. The fleeting touch is gone before Connor can even decide if he likes it or not.

Somehow, Connor expects that they’ll return to Wolfram & Hart; Spike seems to spend his time there when he’s not with him. He’s a bit surprised when instead he’s ushered into a small, rather dingy apartment. Spike locks the door behind them, and a bead of sweat rolls down Connor’s spine at the sound, one vertebra at a time. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“The sofa looks comfortable,” he says, taking two reluctant steps in.

“No, it doesn’t,” Spike replies flatly. He has already shrugged out of his jacket and tugs Connor’s off his shoulders. “The bed’s all right, though.”

Connor glances at him, and tries to figure out how to tell him to slow the hell down. He’s used to people telling _him_ to back off; to be in this position is absolutely foreign.

Spike’s lips curl into a smile that’s anything but reassuring. His hand clutches Connor’s waist, lightly enough that Connor could easily resist when it tugs him forward, and yet Connor follows, his feet dragging a little on the linoleum until they bump against Spike’s. They’re close, now, much too close. Connor blinks, swallows hard. He’s still not sure what he should say. What he should do – or not do. It doesn’t help that he _knows_ Spike can hear his heart thundering in his chest. It doesn’t help either that Spike leans in until their mouths are just an inch apart.

“You scared, pet?” he asks, and Connor can feel the words, like a caress on his lips.

He tries to scoff. “Of course I’m not scared.” 

Spike’s chuckle is like molten chocolate – thick and sweet and Connor will have more of that, thank you very much. More of the lips trailing against his jaw, too, if that’s not too much bother. More of the hands sliding over his hips to cup his ass and push him forward until he’s right against Spike – and he realizes with no small amount of wonder that they’re just as hard.

“Not scared,” he says, his voice trembling. “More like, terrified.”

Spike’s tongue flicks just below his ear. He doesn’t laugh. Connor closes his eyes and almost wishes he _would_ laugh; it’d be easier to pull back, easier to stop him, easier to do anything but stand still and wait to see where Spike’s mouth will go next. He’s not used to being so passive. He doesn’t like it. But it’s all so strange, he can’t seem to be able to move.

Spike’s mouth slides down to the crook of his neck. Connor can feel his smile before he hears it in his words. “I promise I won’t bite.”

He’s out of Spike’s hands and across the room before he even knows what he’s doing. His heart beating faster than ever, he stares at Spike, who stares right back, looking annoyed.

“Oh, for Christ sake…” He rolls his eyes at Connor. “No sense asking where you got your sense of humor.” Shaking his head, he strolls to the fridge and gestures back to a door near Connor. “Bedroom’s that way. There’s a lock if you’re afraid the big bad vamp will come and snack on you.”

He keeps his ramrod-straight back to Connor as he pulls out a small plastic container from the fridge. Connor can smell the blood from where he stands just as clearly as he can feel steel cutting into his throat. Resting a hand across his neck, he steps to the bedroom door without taking his eyes off Spike for a second, and he does lock the door. It’s stupid and he knows it. Spike wouldn’t hurt him.

And neither would his dad.

A bare light bulb casts a cold white glow on the room. The bed is small, the sheets, rumpled. There’s a battered dresser against the wall and an even sorrier-looking night table on the right of the headboard. A door on the side opens onto a minimalist bathroom. There’s no window.

Without thinking, Connor makes the bed, straightening the sheets and blanket until everything is lined up and as wrinkle-free as it will get. He toes off his shoes and lies down fully clothed, his hands resting on his stomach.

He is exhausted, but he can’t make himself turn off the light. He can’t make himself close his eyes, either. He’s not quite sure what just happened. Of course Spike was joking. He gets that. It was a lame joke, and he could have called Spike on it instead of freaking out. He could have…

Whatever he could have done, whatever could have happened, it’s over now. And there’s no way in hell he’s going to fall asleep like this.

Giving up on the bed, he steps over to the bathroom and pure habit makes him close the door before he sheds his clothes. He climbs into the small shower gingerly. The blast of cold water pushes away the memories right along with his sleepiness, and when he steps out again, he’s shivering but calmer. His head is clearer. And he’s ready to go.

He dries himself and gets dressed, grimacing at his sweaty shirt and t-shirt. Maybe… After rummaging in the dresser, he slips on a black t-shirt. It smells like laundry detergent and stale cigarettes; the combination is odd, but not completely unpleasant.

Standing in front of the locked door, Connor slicks back his wet hair, a little nervous. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, leaving the light on as he steps into the darkened apartment. He can just make out Spike’s shape on the too small sofa.

“You sleeping?” he murmurs.

Spike lets out a long-suffering sigh and sits up. “Not anymore.”

“I’m going to go, now. I took a shower, that woke me up. And I borrowed a t-shirt. I hope that’s all right.”

There’s no answer. Unconsciously, Connor steps closer, trying to distinguish Spike’s face – trying to figure out how mad he is. But he can’t see much, can barely see eyes gleaming with just a touch of gold as they observe him.

“Spike, listen… I’m sorry, all right?” That’s not what he wanted to say, but those are the words that come out, and he can’t regret them.

Spike sighs again, softly this time. “Got nothing to be sorry for, pet. But if you really are…” His hand comes up and closes over Connor’s wrist almost delicately. “Com’ here.”

He pulls Connor toward him. It wouldn’t take much for Connor to free himself, but he doesn’t want to. Not again. Instead, he lets himself be tugged onto the sofa until he’s kneeling over Spike’s thighs. This close, he can finally make out Spike’s features, and the hunger he sees there, the desire he feels lower, pressing against him and reawakening his cock, make him lose his breath and yearn for more. Make him wish he had already left. Make him wish he didn’t need to leave.

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say. Or do. This is getting old really fast. He has never been this indecisive – not for either of his first times.

“Not going to give me a goodbye kiss, then?” Spike says coyly, batting his eyelashes.

Connor snorts, his nervousness receding suddenly like the ocean before a tsunami. “Jeez, you look like a girl when you do that.”

He can feel Spike’s laugh more than he can hear it. “You’re saying you don’t like girls?”

“I do,” Connor replies automatically, then frowns. He’s sitting on a guy’s lap, getting hard from it and considering kissing him. Maybe it’s a bit late to claim the straight card. “I mean, I thought I did. Maybe I like both?”

Spike laughs again, but he’s not mocking Connor; instead, he sounds like they’re sharing a joke. “Good enough,” he says. “Now pucker up and give us a kiss.”

Connor does just that. He is soon amazed to realize kissing a guy is exactly like kissing a girl – and also completely different. The first second is a little awkward, but then Connor stops getting stuck on the guy part of the equation and lets himself be pulled under by the rolling waves of curiosity and want. They wrap around him like Spike’s arms do, not as cold, not as harsh as he would have feared – just tight enough.

Spike’s lips taste of cigarettes; his mouth, of blood. If Connor could still think, he’d be shocked to realize he doesn’t mind. He’s not thinking, though. He has done quite enough of that tonight. His tongue slides in a little deeper. It tangles with Spike’s tongue like his fingers tangle in his hair, and Connor presses a little closer to him.

In a minute, he’ll pull away, get off Spike, leave.

In a minute, it’ll be time to go back to campus, alone for hours on that long drive in a car that smells like Spike – and strangely enough, just a little, like Angel, too. He’ll have time then to figure out what the hell he was doing kissing Spike. And whether he’ll want to do it again – although he already knows the answer to that.

In a minute. 

Maybe two. 

Until then, he’s just going to kiss Spike a little more, and see if he can pull another quiet moan from him.

*

Angel broods about it all night – and all day again after he fails to get any sleep. 

It just doesn’t make sense. Not any of it.

Well, half of it does. It even makes too much sense, unfortunately. Spike has found a new way to piss off Angel. That’s only too common. The surprise here is that Angel didn’t see it coming – or maybe, he refused to see it coming. Denial can be comforting, as he knows all too well.

Angel can even – grudgingly, unhappily, if he really has to – admit that maybe – just maybe – Spike isn’t _only_ interested in pissing him off. Maybe – just maybe – he does like Connor. Maybe he does more than like him. Spike does have an extraordinary knack to fall for people who are wrong for him in all sorts of ways. Angel knows that all too well, too, and it’s not reassuring in the least to think that Spike – just maybe – is not playing with Connor. 

But there’s one thing that does not compute in any way in Angel’s mind. He turns the notion around, tries to see it from all possible angles, but he still doesn’t get it.

His son likes girls. Angel still remembers that wild boy’s single-minded determination to kill whoever had given his… friend the medicine that killed her. He remembers, also, and can still taste the bitterness of his own blood at the memory, how fiercely protective Connor was of Cordelia when she returned to them, her mind and heart both empty. He remembers the rain of fire. He remembers a name overheard from outside a window – a girl’s name.

His son hates vampires. He trained since childhood to kill them. Both things were all too clear from the moment he found his way back and pointed a stake at Angel. Almost two decades in Holtz’s tender care… of course he hates vampires. How could he not?

And so it just doesn’t add up. Spike is definitely not a girl. And he definitely is a vampire. So why, _why_ would Connor like him? Why would he seek his company when he has only said three sentences in passing to Angel?

If anything, Angel would have expected him to stake Spike. 

With an actual stake.

Certainly not with anything other than a stake.

And that image makes him want to bleach his mind. Or ask Wes for some kind of mind-wiping spell – if Wes was at all likely to help, which he isn’t, of late. He doesn’t know it yet, but he doesn’t have much time left to grieve.

So Angel doesn’t ask, and he only tries not to think about Connor and Spike. Tries very, very hard. Has very, very little success.

It helps that he knows it’s not going to last. In just days, it’ll be over. He’s going to make Spike an offer he won’t be able to refuse. He hopes.

No, he knows.

At nightfall, he gets the call he requested. He reaches the parking level at the same time as Spike does. Standing in front of the cars with his arms crossed, he waits for Spike to come to him. After a noticeable pause, Spike does come, a wary scent preceding him. He stops three feet away from Angel and stands very stiffly, chin high and hands shoved in his duster’s pockets.

“Is he expecting you?” Angel asks very low.

Spike’s face shows nothing. “What do you think?”

Angel’s fisted hands tighten a little more but his arms remain crossed. He keeps his voice as quiet as he can; if he doesn’t, he’s afraid he’ll shout, and that would not help anything. “Will he come here if you don’t show up?”

“He might,” Spike says, defiance lighting up his eyes. “Why? You’re going to chain me to your desk?”

Angel would lie if he claimed he hasn’t considered it. But that would not help anything either. As much as Angel would like to make sure Spike stays the _hell_ away from his son, as easy as it would be to make it happen, there’s something more important than that. “I don’t want him to come to LA,” he says, each word slow and detached. “Go there if you must, but do _not_ bring him back here.”

Spike’s eyebrows rise, as does the right corner of his mouth. He’s not smiling, though. He has more sense than that. Incredulous, he asks, “Are you actually giving me permission—”

“No,” Angel cuts in abruptly. “I am _not_.” The demon mask starts rising to the front, and Angel has to make a conscious effort to push it back down. His voice is as close to a growl as it can be without mangling his words. “Just be glad I haven’t ripped your arms off yet.”

Spike’s incredulity climbs a notch higher along with his eyebrows. “But you’re not going to, are you? And you’re letting me go to him…” He blinks and tilts his head. He’s grinning now; it’s not a nice grin. “Are you sick? Hit your oversized brow on something? Got bit by another hellish bug?”

“I don’t want him here,” Angel repeats, his eyes as cold as his voice. “Too many risks.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Spike says with a small snort. “If we want a decent fight—”

Two steps take Angel closer to Spike, close enough that he can glare at him eye to eye. Close enough that he could grab his arms and shake some sense into him – but he resists the temptation. “I don’t think you’re listening, boy.” His voice is back to the low rumble of thunder in the distance. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. I don’t want him in LA.”

In the blink of an eye, Spike’s incredulity fades away, replaced by something that’s not quite amusement, not quite submission, but an odd mix of both. The tip of his tongue slides between his lips. “Are you sure, Daddy?” His words are as sugary and sticky as syrup. “I thought you did want to… _see_ him.”

Angel grits his teeth. He’s the one who started this game; he can’t fault Spike for following suit. “Consider yourself lucky I’m not dusting you for touching him and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

A dark edge creeps into Spike’s eyes. “We haven’t actually done much touching yet…”

“Don’t,” Angel says tiredly, and takes a step back. “I don’t want details.”

But Spike is not done playing. “Don’t you, Daddy?” He closes the distance between them again, leaning in close to whisper in Angel’s ear. “Don’t you want to know how sweetly he kisses? How hard he gets when he fights? But you already know it, don’t you? You two have fought often enough from what I understand.”

Angel closes his eyes tight and tries to stop the tremor shaking his body. “Boy… if you don’t go _now_ you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. And you will _not_ enjoy what I do to you.”

When he opens his eyes, Spike is gone. So is Angel’s Porsche.

“Damn it!“

*

Patrolling, tonight, is an excuse more than anything else. As soon as they’ve found a vamp, Spike calls it good enough.

“They must have heard by now that someone’s been cleaning up around here. How ‘bout we pick up where we left it last night?”

Whatever Connor was going to reply, Spike never hears it. He steps right into Connor’s personal space and grabs his hips. Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s as harsh as their sparring – as sweet as spun sugar. Spike pushes, leading Connor until his back is to a graffitied wall, and then he only pushes a little more, pressing into his hardening cock until Connor moans into his mouth before breaking away, gasping. All he does is hang on to the sides of Spike’s duster as Spike’s hips find a slow rhythm on which to dance while his mouth caresses every inch of Connor’s face – staying clear of his neck and throat.

“If…” Connor gulps. There’s a hitch in his voice that Spike is growing very fond of. “If you keep this up,” he tries again, “I’m gonna come in my pants.”

Spike chuckles, his lips tracing patterns of lust and need on Connor’s cheek that his thumbs duplicate on the boy’s hips. Soft skin all around. He wonders where else he’s soft – and where he’s not. “That supposed to convince me?” He arches into Connor, grinding harder against his cock. Even through their jeans, heat just pours out of Connor. Spike can’t wait to get more than fleeting glances of his fingers on that lovely body.

A lovely body that alternates pushing back against his and drawing away as far as the solid wall at Connor’s back will allow. “Come on, Spike.” He breathes hard enough for the two of them. “Not… not like this.”

Spike nips at his bottom lip then draws back so he can see his eyes, the pupils so wide there’s barely any blue left. He misses the blue. He wants to drown in that blue until there’s nothing but the sky and them. 

“Like what, then?” he says, then flicks his tongue along Connor’s jaw.

For a moment, he’s certain that Connor is going to invite him back to his dorm. The bed’s small, but it will do. Better than a dark alley, certainly. 

But then…“I mean, not so fast?” Connor says, his voice rising at the end like he’s not sure that’s what he wanted to say. Like he wants Spike to tell him.

Spike clucks his tongue. “No, that’s not what you meant.” Pushing closer again, he brushes his lips against the shell of Connor’s ear and whispers, “Getting scared again?”

“What if I am?” Connor asks, his voice hardening just a touch. “You gonna force me?”

The words slash Spike’s soul like shrapnel tearing flesh apart. He pulls away from Connor very slowly, then moves back a little farther. He draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and almost drops it. He can feel Connor’s eyes following his every movement as he lights up a fag, but he can’t bear to look at him. Can’t bear the thought of seeing fear or hate in these hazel eyes.

“I didn’t mean—” Connor starts, soft-voiced, but Spike can’t bear to listen to him either. 

“I’ve got to go,” he blurts out in a puff of smoke. The words come out faster and faster. “Haven’t spent much time at the office lately. I better clock in a few hours before I get fired from the job I was never hired for. Said you were going to see your folks tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Have fun, then. Enjoy those cookies.”

He takes three steps before a hand closes on his arm, gentle but unyielding. 

“What about my goodbye kiss?” Connor asks, sounding much too young. Much too apologetic. Much too uncertain.

Spike turns a wary look back to him. “Not too fond of people blowing hot and cold on me. Either you want me or—”

Connor’s hand tightens almost to the point of pain. “Or nothing,” he cuts in. “I do want you. Want this. It’s just…” He smiles, or at least tries to. “You’ve got to give me a bit of time, all right?”

It dawns on Spike, then; Connor doesn’t just _sound_ young. He _is_ young. He’s not trying to fuck with Spike’s head. He really _is_ that hesitant.

Disguising a sigh in an exhalation of smoke, Spike shrugs, and tries to project a confidence that he doesn’t feel – that he’s not going to feel until he’s had time to put some demons to rest again. 

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he drawls. “‘M just greedy, is all.”

Connor’s laugh is clear and bright, like a ray of sunshine breaking the clouds. “You, greedy? I hadn’t noticed.”

They do have that goodbye kiss then, and Spike is overly careful to leave Connor in full control of this one. By the time Spike drives back to LA, he’s pretty sure he’s not the only greedy one – he’ll just have to give Connor the time he needs.

And that’s apparently a full day.

Spike is in the lobby of Wolfram & Hart, the next day, having just offered to check out some big nasty or other Wesley has found and that Angel is not interested in, when sunshine walks right in – and he wants to stake himself at the very thought. More than a century has trickled by, and his poetry is still as pathetic. 

Still, he’s not going to stake himself quite yet, not until he knows—

“What is he doing here?” Angel snaps, throwing a murderous glare at Spike.

Completely unfazed, Spike looks at Connor and tries not to grin too widely. “What are you doing here?”

Connor gives a small, sheepish shrug and returns his grin. “I just thought I’d drop by,” he tells Spike, before turning his eyes to Angel. The grin fades away much too quickly. “And don’t be so happy to see me, Dad. Your soul might take flight.”

It’s all too obvious that Angel is doing his best not to look at him. “Get him out of here,” he growls, his words still directed toward Spike. “ _Now_.”

For just a second as Angel strides away, Connor’s eyes dim. He shakes away the hurt with a forced chuckle, but Spike can still smell how wounded he is.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t care if I liked boys,” Connor says, pretending not to care and failing miserably.

Spike shrugs. “’S not liking boys that’s the problem, pet. It’s liking me.” Or at least, that’s part of it, but Spike has an inkling that there’s something else going on there, though he’ll be damned if he knows what. He draws Connor away, where he won’t stare at Angel’s closed door anymore. “What happened to visiting the family?”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” Connor says, looking back. “Not that I expected that kind of welcome.”

If Angel were in front of him right now, Spike would put his fist in his face. And then he’d sit him down and make him _talk_ to his son. It’s clear Connor wants nothing more – and god knows Angel needs it too, even if he’s acting like the complete bastard Spike likes to claim he is. Spike will get to the bottom of that – later. For now, he’s got a disgruntled boy to take care of. A disgruntled boy who hopefully didn’t come all this way _just_ to see his father.

“Told you he was acting like a right ponce,” he says as he drapes his arm over Connor’s shoulders and draws him forward. “Say, you’re up for a bit of fun? I was going to take Blue out to the amusement park but you could come with.”

Before the night is over, Spike promises himself, he’ll bring the smile back. And with any luck, he’ll get a bit more than a smile.

*

Connor isn’t too sure anymore what he expected would happen if he came to LA again tonight. He didn’t expect any of this, though.

He did go visit his parents like he had told Spike he would, taking advantage of his one test-free day in the middle of a long, hellish week. Two more days of tests still; he’ll have to leave LA early to get enough sleep for tomorrow. 

He didn’t take Sharona to go to his parents, driving instead his old car. He’s not sure yet how to explain that he has been given such an extravagant car. Just like he wasn’t sure how to answer when his mom said he looked happy, and not too subtly inquired if he had found a new girlfriend, maybe.

Right after lunch, he was already getting antsy. By the middle of the afternoon, he said his goodbyes, drove back to campus, picked up Sharona, and got back on the road. He had time, during that long drive, to replay the events of the previous night in his head. He’s a bit sorry for what he said. It’s probably why he’s going to see Spike. 

That, and his mother is on to something. He _is_ kind of happy. Scared, too, and confused as hell, but this feels right, somehow. Not that he has such a great track record with relationships, but just the same, he has a good feeling about this. A cautiously good feeling.

When he got inside Wolfram & Hart, though, when he saw Spike and Angel arguing across the lobby, he realized he hadn’t come _just_ to see Spike. He needed to see his dad too, needed to make sure Spike was right about him.

He wasn’t, though. Was he?

An hour has passed since Angel all but kicked him out of the building and Connor still hurts. It’s like that night after that endless summer when Angel came back. It’s the same feeling in his gut that he has done something he shouldn’t have, and the punishment is both too lenient and too harsh.

“Are you done brooding yet?”

He glances at Spike, shrugging, before returning his gaze to their surroundings. When Spike said amusement park, Connor didn’t envision a condemned one, darkened rides and empty booths all around, like a ghost town supposedly haunted by some kind of demon. “I’m not—”

Spike rolls his eyes in disgust. “I _told_ you that’s not what set him off. Damn, boy, you’re just as stubborn—”

The last thing Connor wants is to be compared to his dad now. Especially if it’s Spike doing the comparison. He doesn’t care to be reminded how long they have known each other. Walking ahead, he catches up with Illyria. She gives him a cool look, as though she were observing an insect. He’s almost glad he doesn’t have wings for her to pull off him.

“Do you remember me?” he asks, trying to get his mind off other matters.

“This shell does,” she replies coolly.

“This shell…” He pulls the sides of a torn metal fence apart, holding the opening wider for her before he slips through. Glancing back, he sees that Spike has lost ground on them, the red pinpoint of his cigarette twenty yards back. “You mean Fred, right?”

Head tilted, she observes him again, her eyes narrowing slightly. “She had… affection for you. And anger. But at the same time, she never met you.”

Connor nods impatiently. “You mean you have two sets of memories,” he says very fast. “One with me and one without me.”

Illyria looks away, apparently losing interest. “Correct.”

Checking again how far Spike is, Connor lowers his voice. “What was it like, without me?” he asks, hesitating a little. “I mean…” He practically whispers now. “Were Angel and Cordelia together?”

She gives him a blank look. “Does it matter? It never happened.”

“It matters to me,” he mutters, unhappy that she’s probably the only person he can ask but also apparently the less likely to give him a straight answer. “Were they together? What about Jasmine? Was she ever born? Who was her father?”

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to tell him. But he never gets an answer. Right then, they find the boretz demon they were looking for. And then, they find someone else. Someone they _weren’t_ looking for. Someone who tells them Angel is responsible for Fred’s death – responsible for a lot more than that, in fact. 

Connor tries to defend his dad at first, but when they take Drogyn back to Spike’s place, when they call in the rest of the old gang and all of them fill him in about the kind of things Angel has allowed to happen lately, Connor falls silent and wonders.   
If it’s true, if Angel really planned Illyria’s release, if he has let babies be sold, let demons run free – if he has sold his soul – if it comes to that… will Connor be able kill him?

He doesn’t think he could do it. Not now. Not anymore.

He looks at Spike, standing across the room, arms crossed and a dark look in his eyes. Spike could do it, no doubt there. So could Wesley, or Gunn, or Illyria, or… Maybe even Lorne, if he has enough to drink beforehand.

But if they have to do it, if they have to put Angel down like a rabid animal – like he’s Angelus again…

Connor isn’t sure he could let them.

*

At the second Angel crosses the curtains of flames, before they even have a chance to pull the bloodied hood off the boy, he knows. Connor’s scent drenches the place. The scent of his blood. Of his fear. 

He shifts to game face and roars, hurling himself at the two demons who are beating Connor. He grabs the first one’s neck and twists, dropping him at once. The second stumbles back before he can lay a hand on him. The white hot rage burning through Angel demands that he go after him and _kill_ , but a single sound stops him. 

A moan of pain. 

He grabs Connor’s arms as he’s falling to his knees and pulls him up, fumbling to pull the hood off his head. Connor blinks and looks up at him, the bruises on his face and bare chest as blue as his eyes. Angel is barely aware of his face melting back to his human features, barely aware that his left hand is cupping his boy’s haggard face, his right one dropping to untie his hands. He turns Connor around, his arm holding him tight in front of him, and looks at the assembled crowd.

They have been silent so far, and they hide their thoughts behind masks, but Angel knows what they expect will happen; he can taste their blood lust on the tip of his tongue, and it’s as bitter, as acrid as the fear pouring from Connor, his neck just inches from Angel’s parting lips.

“No.”

A shocked murmur runs through the crowd. A red-skinned demon – Izzy, Angel is sure – steps forward. “This is the prize we found for you. The strongest blood—”

“He’s no _prize_!” Angel thunders, and he can feel Connor trembling against him. His anger rises a notch higher. “He’s _my_ blood!”

The mood shifts through the room, slowly becoming hostile. This is not good, Angel realizes, pushing down the anger so he can think. Few are invited to join the Circle of the Black Thorn. He’s ready to bet his life that no one ever refused to follow through once they got to this point. If he doesn’t give them an explanation they can accept – anything other than his love for his son and that simple fact: he’ll die before he hurts him again – they are both going to die tonight.

“I intend him to be my successor, some day,” he says, fighting to keep his voice strong and confident. “I’m not going to kill him now before I even know what he’s made of.”

“Your successor?” The masked figure advancing now, his hand on the IV drip that accompanies him everywhere, is all too recognizable. “Two months ago the child didn’t even know you.”

Only at Connor’s quiet whimper of pain does Angel realize his hand has closed over Connor’s chest, his fingers digging into his already bruised flesh. He forces his hand open again and presses it flat. Connor’s heart beats as wildly as a hummingbird’s wing; too fast. He’s got to get him out of here. He has to find a way out.

“But thanks to you, Vail, he does.” Angel’s gaze sweeps the crowd; it’s hard to tell what they think. He tries to put in his voice all the strength he can summon, even though he’s never been so scared. The wrong word now could cost Connor his life. “I’ve reclaimed him. Sent my right arm to evaluate him, and reteach him what he forgot. In time, he’ll rise and maybe join this Circle. I am _not_ killing him. Not today.”

_Not ever again._

Connor’s body is very still against him, but for now Angel can’t worry about what he thinks. Later, he’ll explain, repair the best he can what his words are breaking. But until they’re out of here, he has to keep playing this game.

Another of the masked figures gestures to the guards behind Angel; manicured hands, this one is a woman. From the corner of his eye, Angel watches them stand aside, leaving the fire curtain that masks the entrance unguarded. Angel takes a step back, drawing Connor with him, but the woman says sternly, “Think. You won’t get another chance to join the Circle, Angelus.”

Angel doesn’t react to the name. That’s the least of his worries now. 

“Won’t I?” he says as he shrugs out of his jacket, never letting go of Connor. “Ever?” He sets the leather over Connor’s bare shoulders, and wants to breathe a sigh of relief when Connor finally shakes himself out of his torpor and slides his arms into the sleeves. Angel’s arm drapes over his back, his hand clutching Connor’s arm.

“I’m going to live forever, Senator.” He draws Connor back to the entrance. His gaze runs over the room a last time. Vail. Senator Brucker. Izzy. Sebassis. Damn, but he wishes he could recognize more of them. So close… Shaking his head, he pushes a cold smile to his lips. “Not everyone here will live that long. Maybe once you and others have left openings…”

There are a few snickers through the room. Not from the Senator, though, he notices. Maybe they bought it. They better have, because he’s done. Without turning his back on them, he jumps back over the fire, holding Connor tight against him. The sleeve of his shirt catches fire but he bats at it, barely even feeling the burn as he smothers the small flames. Without losing any time, he drags Connor to the exit, glancing back every few steps to see if they’re being followed. They aren’t. Of course, it’s not like his new _friends_ won’t be able to find him if they decide to kill him after all.

If they decide to kill them both.

“Are you all right?” he asks as they finally step outside. The car awaits just twenty feet away. Angel walks a little faster, pulling Connor along.

“I’m not the one who’s shaking,” Connor replies, slightly out of breath. 

There is pain in his voice. Angel grits his teeth. His boy is hurt and _someone_ is going to pay for it. He opens the passenger door for him and helps him in, noticing his wince, and the way his arm curls around his belly. 

_Someone_ is going to pay very dearly indeed.

Connor flinches when Angel sits behind the wheel and bangs the door of the Porsche shut. Angel gives him an apologetic glance as he starts the car. The engine roars to life, and the wheels screech as he drives away from this cursed place. 

“How the hell did you end up in there?” he asks, his fear and anger bleeding through his words.

When Connor doesn’t answer right away, Angel looks at him again. He’s not sure he likes how troubled his son’s eyes are. The look is all too familiar.

“Drogyn told us what you did,” Connor says at last, the words coming out slowly as though they pained him. “Is it true? Did you give up Fred for—”

“No!” Stopping at a red light so abruptly that the brakes whine in protest, Angel clutches Connor’s shoulder, willing him to believe, for once, that Angel is telling the truth. “Never!”

A couple of seconds trickle by before Connor nods. Angel lets out a quiet sigh. The light is green; he drives forward, reluctantly letting go of Connor.

“You lied to them, didn’t you?” Connor says after a little while. “About sending Spike to teach me?” There’s a certainty in his words that wasn’t there when he asked about Fred. He’s not really asking; rather, he’s letting Angel know he wasn’t fooled.

“How do you know?”

From the corner of his eye, Angel sees him shrug lightly – and feels a pang when he heard the sharp, pained intake of breath. 

“I don’t think I had ever heard you lie before,” Connor says. “It sounded… off.” After a second, he adds, with just an edge of laughter in his voice that warms Angel for a second, before he realizes what Connor is saying exactly. “Plus Spike doing what you say? I’d like to see _that_!”

Angel scowls. If Spike had done as he was told, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Where is he?” he asks, barely able to keep a growl from his voice. “Was he with you when they took you?”

“No. He’s with Wesley and the others. They wanted to figure out what you were up to. I didn’t want to go.”

Angel’s hands tighten on the wheel. It all worked exactly as planned. Everything was perfect. He glances at Connor. Everything except for one not so small detail. Damn it.

“Dad…”

Angel doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing that quiet word from those lips – even if he wishes they weren’t split and still bloody.

“What _are_ you up to?” Connor asks in a small voice.

They’ve arrived at Wolfram & Hart. Angel kills the engine and turns fully to his son, wondering how much to tell him. The answer is easy. Everything.

“I had a plan to get into the Circle of the Black Thorn. They’re the worst of the worst as far as evil goes. I wanted in, so I’d know who they were, so we could kill them. I led them to believe I was behind Fred’s death so they’d think I was a serious player.”

Connor frowns slightly. “So tonight…”

Nodding, Angel reaches back to open the door. “Tonight should have been my initiation.”

He steps out of the car, hurrying to the other side to help Connor out. Tired, haunted blue eyes turn rueful when they meet his. 

“I guess I ruined everything, huh? I’m sor—”

The rest of that apology vanishes in a pained grunt when Angel draws Connor to him and holds him. For one second, he doesn’t care that he’s hurting him even more. For one second, he doesn’t try to figure out how in hell he’s going to fix the mess they’re in. For just one second.

Connor is alive. And he’s going to stay alive, whatever Angel has to do to make sure of it. That’s the only thing that matters.

*

When Connor says he’d rather stay with Illyria and Drogyn than come with them – come with him - Spike is not all that surprised. Connor has been downright _pissy_ all evening. It figures that he’d rather sulk than find proof _Dad_ has been even more of an asshole than usual lately. 

Spike intends to have a few choice words with him later – followed by a nice making-up session, of course. He just has to make it clear to Connor that there’s a lot of room between wanting to kill the wanker and wanting his approval so desperately. Connor needs to find a spot that doesn’t stop him from enjoying Spike’s company.

All thoughts of making up and making out flee his mind, however, when Connor walks into the office. Angel’s arm is around him and clearly supporting his weight. All thoughts of shaking some sense back into Angel disappear at about the same instant, and nevermind that it’s why they’re all there, waiting for the treacherous bastard and hoping even if none of them is saying it aloud that Angel will be able to give them an explanation. Connor is wearing Angel’s jacket and he looks more than ever like a child, the leather engulfing his smaller frame yet failing to hide the bruises on his bare torso. They match the bruises on his face.

Forgetting the plan, forgetting he’s supposed to hit Angel and send him down for the count so they can actually talk to him without him staring down at them from the height of his stupidity, Spike rushes forward and eases Connor out of his father’s hold. Surprisingly enough, Angel lets him go without more than a couple of seconds of hesitation.

“What happened to you, pet?” Spike frets, drawing him forward to the sofa. “Here, sit down.”

Connor sits with a quiet grunt. He captures Spike’s hand when he tries to push the leather away to get a better look. “I’m fine,” he says quietly, meeting Spike’s eyes and giving him a lopsided smile. “I swear.”

He’s a lousy liar, but Spike doesn’t have time to call him on it. The rest of the gang is still on track even if Spike has bowed out early.

“Angel,” Wesley says coldly, “we need to talk to you.”

“And I need to talk to my idiotic Childe,” Angel replies, drawing Spike’s eyes to him. He looks – and sounds – murderous. 

Unconsciously, Spike straightens up and glares right back at him. What the hell is he on to, now? It’s not like _Spike_ brought Connor home injured.

“We know what you’ve done,” Wesley continues, ignoring the glaring. “We—”

“You really don’t.” Walking right through the semi-circle formed by Wesley, Gunn and Lorne, all of them armed and menacing, Angel comes to the sofa. After another hard look at Spike, he turns to Connor. “In the inside pocket,” he says, his voice noticeably softer. “On the right. There’s a sphere?”

Connor gives a shallow nod and lets go of Spike's hand to reach inside the jacket. He pulls out the object in question and hands it to Angel, who smiles faintly in return. Spike frowns, realizing what the scent he’s picking up from both of them is; guilt. Why in hell—

Behind Angel, the team does not appreciate being ignored.

“If you think we’re going to let you kill us one by one,” Gunn starts, but Angel turns toward him and cuts in abruptly.

“What I think is that you need to understand how things are going to be from now on. I’ve accepted the job of CEO. I intend to do my job. If you’re not happy with any of it, the door is wide open.”

Wesley and Gunn are already sputtering their outrage – and Spike would add his voice to theirs if he wasn’t so confused about the confident look in Connor’s eyes – when Angel raises the hand that holds the sphere Connor gave him. He says a single word, and a flash of light runs over the room, so fast Spike isn’t even sure he didn’t imagine it. 

“All right, time out,” Angel says very fast, his tone suddenly less 'I'm your lord and ruler' and more 'you're not going to like this but I need to say it anyway'. “For anyone outside, we’re still arguing about the Circle of the Black Thorn—”

Gunn raises his sword. “So it’s true. You son of a—”

Angel gives him a scathing look before turning to Wesley. “How did you find out about it, Wes? An anonymous message, maybe?” He turns to Spike. “And you found Drogyn. Who do you think led him to believe I orchestrated Illyria’s return?”

Weapons are slowly being lowered even as eyebrows rise. Wesley asks what they all think. “What’s going on?”

“What _was_ going on,” Angel replies after a glance at Connor, “was my attempt to become part of the Circle, discover who the main players are so that we could take them down.” He makes eye contact with each of them in turn, ending with Spike. “Together.”

“Together?” Spike snorts. “You’ve been flying solo on that one.”

Angel doesn’t even have the grace to look apologetic. “I needed you to think I had switched sides so they’d think it too.”

Stepping forward, Wesley rests the barrel of his shotgun on his shoulder. “That was certainly a convincing act,” he says dryly.

A deep weariness enters Angel’s voice. “They thought so too. But I may have ruined things tonight and there’s a lot of damage control to be done. I’m going to keep playing the act for now.” He pauses and looks at them all again, this time stopping on Wesley. “I need you to treat me as though Angelus had returned.”

Lorne lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. He raises his crossbow, but his hands are shaking. “You mean you want us to stake you?”

“Maybe not that far.” Angel’s lips do not even twitch in the beginning of a smile. “But we’re not friends. Not until I fix things. I only know of four people in the circle. I intend to take down a lot more than that.”

They all have more questions. Spike doesn’t know whether to ask if Angel has completely lost his fucking mind or to demand to know what happened to Connor. But the time for answers has passed, at least for now. Hamilton strides into the room, and while his expression is one of polite interest, his scent is something else altogether. Before Spike can figure it out, his focus shifts back to Connor, who has leapt to his feet and is glaring at Hamilton for all he is worth, his fists closed at his sides. Spike frowns, taken aback, and notices that Angel moves just a step in front of Connor, standing between him and Hamilton.

“Strategy meeting, Angel?” Hamilton says on a pleasant tone.

“Just clearing out some misconceptions about what my purpose here is,” Angel replies. His tone, face and scent are all pure determination. He gives Wesley a hard look, and dismissive ones to Gunn and Lorne. “Now that we’re clear, go.”

Sullen and glaring, they do; Angel seems to already have forgotten about them. His gaze turns to Spike, and it is pure ice. “Take Connor to the penthouse.”

“I don’t think—” Spike starts, but again Angel interrupts, his eyes so close to amber that Spike is sure he’s just moments away from shifting to game face.

“Now, boy,” he says, practically growling.

Spike tenses, his hand already rising to settle at the other boy's waist and help him toward the elevator. Connor shivers; Spike doubts it's from his touch.

*

As messed up as all of it is, when the elevator doors close on them Connor can’t help snickering. “I thought you didn’t take orders from him.”

Spike gives him an offended look. “I _don’t_.”

Connor’s grin widens – and he regrets it at once. His lips hurt too bad to smile that much. “Liar.”

Huffing, Spike turns fully toward him, never dropping the arm that is curled at Connor’s waist, gentle enough not to hurt, strong enough that Connor could let his knees buckle like they’ve been threatening to do for a while and he’d never hit the floor. Just like Angel held him earlier.

“I just want him to give me the full explanation,” Spike says, his voice making it clear that it had better be a good one. His free hand rises to Connor’s face, his fingertips brushing like the softest feather. Connor flinches anyway.

“What the hell happened to you, pet?” he whispers.

Connor gestures vaguely at the doors, his anger resurfacing. Better anger than fear. The last time he was beaten that thoroughly, the Beast went on to plunge Los Angeles into a permanent night. He’s not too thrilled to find out what will happen this time. “That guy happened to me. And his fists.”

Spike’s eyes turn gold. “Hamilton?” he growls. “I’m gonna kill—”

Connor catches his hand before he can press the button for Angel’s office. Bad enough that one of them is hurt. “I think he killed Drogyn,” he says quickly, trying to distract Spike. “And he beat Illyria unconscious.”

A quiet chime announces they have reached the penthouse. Spike is too busy staring at Connor to notice at first, but when Connor starts moving, he follows at once. “Bloody hell. Was so worried about you I didn’t even think about them.”

That quiet mutter sends a bittersweet pang coursing through Connor. 

Spike leads him to the sofa, making him sit while he picks up the nearby phone. He stabs at the keys with an angry finger, grumbling curses when the call doesn’t go through and he gets what sounds like a recorded message, but after another few pushes of his finger, he raises his head as he finally reaches someone.

“Wesley. You need to go to my apartment. Blue’s hurt.”

Reclining into the sofa, Connor doesn’t try to hear the other end of that conversation. There’s not much he can do about Illyria now. Or Drogyn. He tried, and he wasn’t anywhere near good enough.

“Can’t do,” Spike says, his eyes finding Connor’s. “Busy.” He listens for a little while, shaking his head even though Wesley can’t see. “You’ve heard him, Percy. Angelus is back. Pick a side. I’ve already got mine.”

He hangs up without a word of goodbye. Coming to Connor, he holds out his hand. Connor doesn’t want to take it at first – he doesn’t want to _move_ ever again – but Spike won’t be deterred, and when he raises an impatient eyebrow Connor sighs and allows himself to be helped up. 

“And what side did you choose?” he asks, silencing the pain that pulses again through his body as he moves.

Spike leads him into Angel’s bedroom. “The side where you don’t get beat up again,” he says dryly, and tugs Connor into the en suite bathroom. It’s all gray marble and sleek stainless steel, with no mirror anywhere. “Here, sit down. Take that jacket off.”

Gentle hands help Connor sit on the wide edge of the Jacuzzi before taking the leather jacket off him. He shivers, although he’s not sure if it’s from being cold or from feeling so exposed under Spike’s icy-cold stare. He wants to cover himself, hide his bruises along with his shame, but his hands feel much too small. He tries to make a joke out of it.

“Are you always that romantic?”

With a jerk of his head, Spike turns away and starts rummaging in the medicine cabinet and under the sink. “Not funny.” He runs water on a washcloth. When he turns back to Connor and kneels in front of him, he’s scowling.

“Who has no sense of humor, now?” Connor says as he tries to take the washcloth from him.

Spike bats his hand away and presses the washcloth to Connor’s face, dabbing lightly. It feels warm, soft and heavenly.

“Have you _looked_ at yourself?” he mutters. “Blue’s pretty in your eyes, not so much on your skin. There’s nothing funny about that.”

Connor doesn’t reply, because he’s right, there really is nothing funny about the entire situation. His eyelids dropping half closed, he lets Spike clean blood and dirt from his face, chest, back and hands. 

Spike’s frown deepens when he sees Connor’s split knuckles. “What the hell happened?” he says again.

Shrugging is a bad idea; Connor winces. “I told you. Hamilton came to your place. Started flinging his fists. He looked like he wanted Drogyn at first but when he saw me he changed his mind.”

Spike stands, rinses the washcloth and comes back for a second pass. The cloth is even warmer now. Pain slowly recedes to a dull throbbing.

“He knocked me out,” Connor continues, the words coming out very quietly. “When I woke up, I was tied up and blindfolded. Someone beat me up some more.”

He pauses when Spike gets rid of the washcloth and turns to him instead with butterfly bandages. A soft finger under his chin makes Connor tilt his head back. Spike’s hands are steady when he applies a butterfly first over Connor’s eyebrow, then high on his cheek. The entire time, though, his eyes burn with an angry gold. He grabs some bandages from the counter and wraps Connor’s hands, so gently that Connor never feels a twinge of pain.

“And then my dad came in,” he starts again, still as quietly. The words catch a bit in his throat. He remembers thinking, when the beating stopped, that his captors were going to kill him now. And then the hood was pulled off his face, and he wasn’t sure at first if he was dreaming or not. Angel’s arm holding him close felt all too real, though. “They wanted him to kill me.”

Spike is done. He cups Connor’s face in his hand and watches him through blue-again eyes. His face is filled with badly hidden pity. “Connor…”

“But he didn’t kill me,” Connor finishes, and despite the pain he can’t help but smile.

Spike shakes his head. His hand slides to the back of Connor’s head. “Of course he didn’t. You daft boy.”

He leans in and rests his lips against Connor’s. The caress is so soft that Connor isn’t even sure they’re touching. He presses a little harder, sneaking his tongue out to slide against the seam of Spike’s mouth, but already Spike is pulling away, standing, helping Connor to his feet.

“Don’t want to hurt you, pet,” he says with a half grin, and leads Connor out of the bathroom. “Let’s see if we can find you something to wear…”

Connor stops him before he can take more than a step toward what looks like a closet.

“Kissing doesn’t exactly _hurt_ , you know,” he says, drawing Spike back to him.

Spike’s worried look doesn’t last very long. Connor sneaks an arm around his waist, closing the distance between them, and Spike gives up pretending he doesn’t want this too – doesn’t want this just as much as Connor does, unless Connor is really off his mark, and he doesn’t think he is. Not when Spike’s lips are softly moving against his, coaxing them open. Not when his tongue comes to meet Connor’s, sliding smoothly along it.

A quiet hum rises from Connor’s throat – and stops abruptly when Spike pulls away yet again.

“You all right?” he asks, sounding worried. His eyes search Connor’s face.

Connor rolls his eyes at him. This is not going to work if Spike jumps back every two seconds. 

But if he _can’t_ jump back…

Hands on Spike’s hips, Connor leads him backwards toward the bed. “I’ll be much better in a minute. Now sit. And stop worrying.”

He pushes Spike down, and gets a mild glare for his trouble. But when – carefully, oh so carefully – he climbs onto the bed and straddles Spike’s lap, Spike forgets to be mad. He also forgets, it seems, to be worried. One hand at Connor’s waist and the other at the back of his head, he lets himself be kissed without more protests. Their mouths remain gentle, gentler, certainly, than they were the last time they kissed, but this is nice too. This is better than nice, so much so that Connor forget about his bruises enough to press a little harder into the kiss. 

Spike starts leaning back ever so slowly until he’s lying down on the bed. Connor follows without ever breaking the kiss, resting his weight on his hands then his forearms on either side of Spike. He carefully lowers himself and presses his chest to Spike’s. It _hurts_ but at that moment he couldn’t care less. Spike’s fingers are tracing whispers of arabesques on his back. He is already hard and pressing against Connor’s slowly hardening cock, and the only way this could be better would be with less clothes between them. Less hurting would be nice too, but Connor will take what he can have.

Something – a scent – is tickling the back of Connor's mind, but he doesn’t let himself think about it; not now. Now he only wants to rock just a little harder against Spike, kiss him just a little more, and let the pain fade away.

Only when Spike suddenly becomes utterly still against him does he realize that the cut on his lip is bleeding again. He raises his head and looks at Spike, meeting eyes that seem to be caught between blue and gold, like Connor is caught between the knowledge that giving a taste of his blood to a vampire can’t possibly be a good idea, and the sheer need to kiss him again.

“Connor,” Spike breathes, almost pleading, and the sound sends a jolt straight to Connor’s dick.

He starts lowering himself again, but before his mouth reaches Spike’s, they both freeze at the tired, exasperated and just plain _angry_ growl behind them.

“Bad enough that you’re doing this at all but honestly. On _my bed_?”

*

Looking away from them is both painful and necessary. Nails digging into his palms, Angel walks over to the closet and spends a little too much time looking for a shirt. He only turns again when he’s sure they’re not wrapped around each other anymore, and is relieved to see Connor standing by the bed, arms crossed, his bandaged hands sticking out on either side of his chest. He doesn’t quite meet Angel’s eyes when he accepts the shirt Angel holds out to him. Spike, meanwhile, is still reclining on the bed, leaning back on his elbows. The snugness of his jeans makes it all too clear that he is hard. Angel glowers at him – better that than to check if Connor enjoyed their time alone just as much.

Besides, all Angel needs to do is breathe in, and the answer is quite clear.

A smile that comes much too close to gloating rises to Spike’s lips under Angel’s hard look. “You’re the one who said come up here,” he drawls.

Angel’s hands tighten into fists yet again. “I don’t recall adding an invitation to molest my son. In my bed.”

Connor snorts as he walks past him and out of the bedroom, shaking his head. “I’m sure I looked completely helpless on top of him.”

Angel frowns at his retreating back. Did his son just give him lip? It has been a long time since he did, and Angel hasn't exactly missed that part of him. Hanging out with Spike is definitely not helping...

“How about an invitation to beat him up?” Spike says, his grin sharpening to something almost feral as he gets to his feet and comes to Angel. “Your new friend Hamilton did quite a number on him.”

A pang of guilt resonates through Angel and he rubs at his bloodied knuckles absently. Spike’s scarred eyebrow rises as he notices. Angel shoves his hands in his pockets and follows Connor into the living room, Spike trailing behind him. 

“Believe me, Hamilton understands exactly how unhappy I am about all this.” Not that Angel seemed to leave a mark on him; he can’t possibly be human, or at least not fully. Good thing to know before the time to kill him comes. And Angel _will_ kill him, slowly, and enjoy every second of it. “He won’t touch Connor again. No one will if I can help it.”

From his seat on the sofa, Connor looks up at him. His face is unreadable, although he smells wary. He’s still working on buttoning the shirt, his bandaged hands hindering him. Angel takes another step forward to go help him, but already Spike is walking past him, perching himself on the edge of the coffee table in front of Connor and taking over. Connor raises his eyes to the ceiling, but he doesn’t protest. His little smile twists something deep inside Angel; the whole thing feels almost as intimate as what he interrupted earlier.

Turning his back on them, Angel walks over to the low cabinet against the wall. He pulls from it a device no bigger than his thumb; one of Fred’s last gifts. When he twists the top and turns it on, a high-pitched buzzing comes to life. He winces and leaves the device on the cabinet, returning to stand by the sofa. Both Spike and Connor are grimacing, enjoying the buzzing no more than he does.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Spike asks, frowning at him.

He’s done buttoning, but he has left the top two buttons undone, Angel notices. A bruise that is not quite blue, not fully purple peeks beneath the open shirt. Angel absently rubs his fingers to the same spot on his chest. Has he ever been able to protect his son?

“I don’t think they have microphones in here,” he says, tearing his gaze away from the bruise. “But if they do they’re now disabled.”

Standing, Spike faces him and crosses his arms. “Now are you going to explain what the hell is going on?”

“I messed up, that’s what,” he says, unconsciously mirroring Spike’s stance. “I took a bad situation and I made it a thousand times worse.” He glares at the predictable taunts he can all but hear rising to Spike’s lips. “All thanks to _you_.” 

Spike blinks, his chin rising half an inch. “What did I do now?”

“I told you not to bring him back here, didn’t I?” Angel gestures toward Connor and sees him sitting up straighter, mouth opening to say something, but Spike is faster.

“It’s not like I knew he was coming!” he sputters.

Which might be true, but Angel won’t take that as an excuse. He warned Spike, and still the idiot didn't listen. He steps forward, pointing a finger at him. “If you hadn’t given him that damn car—”

Spike rolls his eyes and holds his ground. “Yeah, because pretending he doesn’t exist is so much—”

“Will you two stop already?” Connor snaps. He stands and his frown goes back and forth between Angel and Spike. “I’m right here. Stop talking like I’m not.”

Spike’s angry expression melts away when he turns to Connor. Resting a hand on Connor’s hip, he says quietly, “Sorry, pet.”

At the word, Angel’s gaze jump from that offending hand to Spike’s face. He growls. “Don’t you dare call him that!”

“If I minded,” Connor says sharply, “I’d have made him stop long ago.”

Their eyes meet, and there’s something Angel doesn’t like at all lurking just below the surface, something that isn’t quite possessiveness, not jealousy either, but it’s much too close to both things for comfort.

“ _I_ mind,” Angel says, refusing to back down. “And if I told you about his other _pets_ you’d—”

“Two can play that game,” Spike interrupts. “Want me to go down memory lane with you?”

Angel’s eyes widen at the threat – because that’s what it is. He looks at Spike, and his silent “ _you wouldn’t dare_ ” is met by an equally silent “you started this”. Spike can’t mean he’d tell Connor about _that_. He all but promised he wouldn’t. If he did, death would be a relief he’d be begging for long before Angel was done with him. But he won’t.

Will he?

“Should I leave the two of you alone for a while?” Connor says after a few seconds, anger rising in his voice. “Maybe once you’ve fucked each other into the carpet we can figure out what to do now that the Black Thorn thinks I’m in the running to take Angelus’ succession.”

Angel’s mind stops on the word ‘fucked’ and he turns a horrified look to Connor. Does he know? Did Spike tell him, after all?

Spike also looks at Connor and sounds equally horrified, although not about the same thing. “The Black Thorn thinks _what_? Why in hell would they—”

“Angel was pretty convincing when he told them.”

“You told them—” Spike’s open hand pushes at Angel’s shoulder, drawing his attention back to him. He looks incredulous. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Angel scowls at him. Like Spike is one to talk, always coming up with the most stupid plans. “I didn’t have time to come up with a better story.” Stepping forward, he looms over Spike. “And I wouldn’t have needed to do that if you hadn’t placed him right on Hamilton’s path!”

“Well maybe if you had told me about that absolutely insane plan of yours I—”

Throwing his hands in the air, Connor starts walking away. “OK, I’m done here. When you two have figured out who has the bigger one, you know where to find me.”

Before he can take more than two steps, Angel grabs his arm just above the wrist and stops him. “You are not going anywhere, son.”

With a frown, Connor faces him and pulls his arm free. Angel lets go. Every time he has to, it becomes a little more difficult.

“Guess again,” Connor says.

He’s about to turn away once more. This time, Spike acts before Angel, snaking an arm around Connor’s waist and drawing him closer. “You really are not, luv.”

Angel waits for Connor to pull away and free himself from Spike’s hold. He keeps waiting. All that happens is that Connor’s eyes flash between the two of them, finally settling on Spike. “So you two can agree on something? Good to know. And for the record, I like pet better.”

Spike chuckles. “Pet it is, then.”

He tilts his head in invitation, and after a flicker of a glance toward Angel, Connor brushes his lips against Spike’s. They share a grin that is so familiar and easy that Angel has to look away. Something fragile inside him feels like it’s breaking and the shards are tearing his soul apart. 

He clears his throat. “So. The Black Thorn.”

*

The touch is barely enough to be called a kiss, but to Spike it’s almost as nice as what Angel interrupted earlier – because this time, Connor doesn’t scramble off him with the look of a kid caught with both hands in the cookie jar. This time, he not only initiates the kiss, but when he ends it he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans a little more against Spike’s side. Granted, it’s just as likely to mean he’s downright exhausted as to be a wordless message to his father, but Spike will take and enjoy every small gesture he is offered.

Pressing his lips to Connor’s temple, he draws him back to the sofa and this time sits with him. Both his arms are around him now. They have decisions to make, and he won’t let Connor go anywhere until they’ve figured out a plan. It doesn’t hurt that Connor only sees the affectionate nature of the gesture and rests his bandaged hand on Spike’s.

On the other side of the coffee table, leaning against the back of the armchair, Angel clears his throat again.

“First things first,” he says, sounding gloomy even for him. “You’ll be staying here from now—”

Spike can’t even bear to let him finish. “With you?” He snorts. “So you can ruin our fun? Hell no. He’ll move in with me.”

He must have tightened his hold without noticing because Connor takes a sharp, pained breath and wiggles a little against him, pulling away just an inch. Spike gives him an apologetic look that goes unnoticed.

“I’m not moving in with anyone,” he says, his exasperation barely contained. “I’ve got two days’ worth of finals to take still and then I lined up an internship in San Fr—”

“No way,” Spike cuts in, at the same time as Angel says darkly, “That’s not happening.”

Connor tries pulling back further, but Spike doesn’t let him. He gets a mild glare for his trouble and replies by pursing his lips. His frown deepening, Connor turns to Angel and lashes out. “That’s _my life_ you’re trying to destroy!”

He stops there, but he might as well have shouted _again_. The word hangs in the room, heavy as lead, and a quick glance at Angel is enough. He has taken that unvoiced word like a blow, and he’s ready to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Good thing for him that Spike is there.

“The guilt trip might work on him, pet.” He brushes his fingertips across Connor’s neck, where he was told a blade once cut. There’s no scar for his fingers to find, but he doubts he’s the only one who can smell blood. “I won’t be that easy. I didn’t kill you, and I’m not letting anyone else do it either.”

Connor bats his hand away from his neck and manages to slide a little further back, now sitting on the edge of the sofa. Spike lets him – for now. Eventually Connor will stop being angry and realize that all they want is for him to be safe. For now, though, he’s still fighting. 

“So you’ll just take away everything that makes me, _me_?” he says flatly “Everything that keeps me sane? And you think I’ll let you?”

His eyes are dull, almost dead. Spike raises his hand from the sofa behind Connor and lays it softly on his back, rubbing soothingly. He might as well be petting a stone for all the reaction he gets.

“We’re not going to take everything away, son,” Angel says, drawing Connor’s eyes back to him. “But there’ll need to be compromises.”

Connor bristles. “Like what?”

“You’ll go back to Stanford to finish school.” The words come out slowly, and it’s clear to Spike that Angel doesn’t like saying them. It’s just as clear that he doesn’t want to say the rest either, especially when he moves from behind the armchair and sits down, hands clasped and forearms on his knees. He’s just buying himself time before he finally sighs and mutters, “Spike will go with you.”

Chuckling soundlessly at the grimace twisting Angel’s mouth, Spike slides closer to Connor again until their legs are touching from hip to knee. His hand has slipped beneath cotton soft as silk to find even smoother skin. Goosebumps rise beneath his caressing fingers. “No objections here,” he says, not bothering to disguise his smugness.

Connor gives him a small eye roll, but he’s not moving away again. Fast to anger, but equally fast to move on; that’s good. Spike eyes those bruised lips and wonders if it’s too early to try for another kiss, but he is interrupted just as he starts leaning in.

“You’re not going there to distract him,” Angel snaps.

Spike throws him a scathing look. “I know that. You think I’m stupid?”

The slow shake of Angel’s head is incredulous. “Do you _really_ want me to answer that?”

“All right so far,” Connor interrupts with a weary sigh before they can do more than glare. “What about my internship?”

“We’ll find you something in LA,” Angel says. 

Connor’s frown would be easy to miss if Spike wasn’t so close. “Here?” he asks. “I mean, at Wolfram & Hart?”

Spike glances at Angel, expecting a resounding no, and finds instead a carefully blank expression. 

“Do you want to do it here?” Angel asks, and for all the emotions he puts in those words he might as well be asking Connor if he wants a coke or orange juice. He doesn’t fool Spike, though. He wants Connor to say yes, wants to keep him as close as he can.

“You actually care what I think?” Connor asks, his frown deepening as he leans forward just a bit.

“Of course I care. You said it yourself. It’s your life. I didn’t…” Standing abruptly, Angel strides to the bar on the side of the room and pours himself two fingers of scotch. He answers without looking back. “I didn’t do what I did to just take it all from you now.”

Connor’s body becomes absolutely rigid against Spike, and his heart stutters. Spike wants to roll his eyes at both of them – wants to bang their heads together until they have that talk and get it over with. 

“Not to interrupt the pity party,” Spike says, sneering, “But that’s a no-brainer from where I stand. This town is full of evil, and that’s without counting in the Black Thorn. This place might be the worst of all, but at least we can be here to keep an eye on him.”

When Angel turns back to them, his untouched glass in hand, he gives a shallow nod. Rather than calling it settled, though, he looks at Connor and says his name, asking again what he thinks.

“No,” Connor says at once, no trace of hesitation in his voice. “I don’t want an internship here. Ten minutes with the two of you and I’m ready to stake you both. Day in and day out, I don’t guarantee I won’t.”

Angel nods again. “OK. I’ll pull some strings, find—”

“It’s bloody well not OK,” Spike jumps in, incensed. “He’s—”

Walking back to the armchair, Angel towers over them. “Spike. Enough.”

“But it’s—”

“I said enough, boy.”

Spike’s open mouth closes with a small snap. Blinking very fast, he watches Angel sit down, the glass still in his hand. What _in hell_ is he thinking? It’s the second time tonight he has used that tone, the second time he has called him _that_ \- and the second time Connor has shivered at the word. Either the bastard is too upset to think straight, or he and Spike need to have a small talk about who is playing games exactly.

“Now,” Angel says, rising the glass to his lips but putting it down again without touching it. “You’ll be out of here for the internship. But you’re coming back here every evening.”

Connor tenses again. He doesn’t look away from Angel, but somehow he finds Spike’s free hand and manages to clutch it despite the bandages that are bound tight over his fingers and knuckles. “No way. I am not living with—”

Angel cuts in, and as blank as his voice is again, it still fails to conceal his feelings. “There are other apartments in the building.”

“There are?” Spike butts in. “And you’ve left me live in that dump all this time?”

Angel shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You never asked.”

“Like you’d have taken me in.” Spike scowls. Connor’s hand tightens just a little on his.

Scoffing, Angel brings the glass to his mouth yet again – and again he doesn’t drink. “This is not about you.”

If they were alone, Spike would put his fist in Angel’s face. He’d tell him that he _knows_ it’s not about him – was it ever? Or he would ask why he’s so afraid to touch that glass – and why he wants it so much at the same time. They’re not alone, though, and Spike is all too aware that their audience has heard quite enough already. Pinching his lips tight, he settles on a glare.

“I want two bedrooms,” Connor says abruptly, breaking the too heavy silence. “And the best video games system. And blood in the fridge.”

Feeling as startled as Angel looks, Spike turns to Connor. His eyes are so close that Spike could drown – so worried that he wants to shove his tongue down Connor’s throat and show him that he’s got nothing to worry about. It’d have been better if Connor had asked for one bedroom and a king sized bed, but Spike is pretty confident the second bedroom won’t be used very long – if at all. Grinning, he takes Connor’s face in the palm of his hand and pulls him closer for a kiss – only to be interrupted again by Angel loudly clearing his throat. Connor looks at him, and Spike’s lips end up on his cheekbone. Good enough, he thinks, and feeling vindictive, he starts trailing kisses down Connor’s cheek and along his jaw.

“I’ll arrange all that,” Angel says, all but choking on the words.

He stands again and returns to the liquor cabinet, but Spike barely even notices. He flicks his tongue at Connor’s lips, picking up the faintest taste of dried blood. His scent is just as enticing.

“I don’t suppose you’ll stop _patrolling_ ,” Angel says, and it’s obvious he means something else altogether. 

Connor chuckles; he has heard it too. He tilts his head just a little, offering Spike his cheek again rather than moving away. “I can take care of myself, Dad,” he says, a trace of laughter in his voice; he, too, is talking about two different things.

Pressing his lips to Connor’s temple again, Spike glances at Angel and meets his eyes. Neither of them says a word, but they understand one another just the same. Maybe Connor can take care of himself, but the two of them won’t let anything or anyone hurt him. Not even each other.

*

“Spike. I need to talk to Connor. Alone.”

Spike’s hold tightens just a little at Angel’s words, and Connor has to bite back a groan. He doesn’t think he has broken ribs – he knows from experience it would hurt a lot more if he did – but Spike’s possessiveness, as enjoyable as it is, comes with a price. Not that Connor’s cock seems to mind all that much; he’s rather glad that Angel’s shirt is so long, the folds hiding his crotch. He wishes his scent were as easy to conceal.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Spike mutters defiantly, the words brushing like caresses against the shell of Connor’s ear. “It’s not like I don’t know you’re going to warn him against me.”

Angel comes back with a glass that is now full of alcohol, but Connor is rather certain he hasn’t tasted a drop of it yet. He stands in front of them, just two feet away and sighs in exasperation. He has sighed a lot, tonight. Connor has a feeling Spike is very good at drawing that sound from him, although he doubts they’re all bad sighs when it’s just the two of them. The thought makes him curl his hand into a fist. The bandages tighten against his scrapped knuckles, rubbing them raw.

“Again,” Angel says very slowly as though talking to someone who isn’t too bright, “not everything is about you. I want five minutes with my son. Is that too much to ask?”

Hours earlier in the lobby – it feels like days – Angel refused to look at Connor and ordered Spike to get him out of his sight. The painful knot in Connor’s chest loosens. Five minutes really isn’t too much. 

“Come on, Spike,” he whispers, turning a faint smile at him. “The faster we’re done, the faster we can get back to campus. I’ve got a test at eight thirty tomorrow. Or today, actually.”

Spike’s look is downright mutinous. “I’m not—”

“You know,” Connor cuts in, smiling just a little more until he thinks his lips might start bleeding again, “I’m starving. Think you could hit the vending machines and find me something to eat? Anything but dried scorpions.” Pressing in closer, he drops his voice as low as he can. “Please?”

He can feel Spike caving in before he replies, his arms reluctantly letting go. “I’ll see what I can do,” he mutters, clearly unhappy. “I’ll wait for you in his office. Don’t believe half of what he says about me.”

He presses a peck to Connor’s lips, then as he stands he kisses his forehead just above the butterfly bandage he applied over his eyebrow earlier. He pauses in front of Angel for some more posturing – honestly, Connor is surprised they haven’t resorted to pounding their chests with their fists yet – and finally walks away. Neither Connor nor Angel says a word or moves until the elevator doors have closed on him with a whisper of oiled metal. 

Angel steps forward then, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, so close that their knees brush together. Connor’s gaze drops to the glass Angel holds in both his hands as though it were something precious. His knuckles are red, and Connor rubs his own through the bandages in sympathy. His throat feels dry. He wishes he’d dare to reach for that glass and take a sip, but he doesn’t need a lecture about drinking on top of what is coming. When Angel still doesn’t say anything, Connor looks up at his face; he recognizes the concern and worry – and the fear – all too easily.

“How do you feel?” Angel asks quietly. “How badly—”

“I’m fine,” Connor cuts in, because as nice as it is, this isn’t what he wants to hear. He already has Spike to fuss over him. “I’ll be healed by the time we come back.”

Angel’s right hand rises, slowly as though not to scare Connor, and the tip of his forefinger brushes against the butterfly bandage on his cheek. “I’m so sorry about all this…”

Connor lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I know you are.” He waits until the same finger has brushed against his eyebrow before he continues. “I can’t say I’m happy about it, but…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. At least this time we’re on the same side.”

His half smile is lost on Angel, who looks down at his drink, frowning like he just realized what he is holding. He sets the glass at the other end of the coffee table.

“I’ll figure out how to put things back the way they were,” he says, his tone already stronger. “And then—”

“And then nothing” Connor pauses until his father’s eyes have come back to him. “I’m going to keep up with school because it’d be stupid to waste a perfectly good scholarship, but things are _not_ going back to normal.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “ _This_ is what normal is. And you know what? That’s all right.”

Angel shakes his head. “But it shouldn’t be. I never wanted this for you. Not ever. When you were born…”

His voice trails off as he looks at his empty hands, opened palms turned upward in front of him, and Connor can’t help wondering what he sees in them. He doesn’t ask, though. He doesn’t say a word. There’s so much he wants to know, so much he wants to ask… He was never ready until now – but now he doesn’t know where to start. And neither does Angel, it seems.

“When you walked out of my office after Sahjhan… I hoped so much you’d be going back to your old life.” He meets Connor’s gaze, and his look pleads for him to understand. “I hoped it wouldn’t have all been for nothing.”

“It _wasn’t_.” Connor wishes he could find the words to make him understand that he means it, but he has never really talked to his dad, not like this, not about anything that mattered, and he doesn’t know what to say other than repeat, “It wasn’t for nothing. And it really is all right.”

They stare at each other for a moment longer, and it strikes Connor then. He doesn’t know how to talk to Angel, but Angel doesn’t know how to talk to him either. This is new for both of them, and somehow the tangled threads of dread, guilt and failure in the pit of his stomach slacken a little. It’s not going so bad, after all. Neither of them has tried to kill the other – at least not yet – and they’ll have time to talk more when Connor moves to LA. It’s not what he wanted, but he didn’t lie – it really is all right.

With a sigh and a thin smile, he breaks the moment. “Why don’t you go ahead and give me that warning now, before Spike decides he’s waited long enough.”

Angel blinks twice as though forcing his mind back to the present, and Connor can’t help but wonder where he was, for those few seconds – and with which version of his son.

“It is a warning, yes.” A wry smile tugs at his lips. “But not the way you think. Listen, Spike can be a little…” His hands move in a vague gesture to encourage the words to come out, but it doesn’t seem to help. Standing, he takes a few steps to the side, raking his fingers through his hair before he turns back and starts again. “He doesn’t do things halfway. Not when he fights, and not when he—” His mouth twists as though tasting something sour. “Not when he loves.” 

Connor’s heart skips a beat. He hasn’t heard that word from Spike yet – those silly nicknames don’t count – but he realizes at that moment that he kind of wouldn’t mind hearing it rather than ‘like’.

He wouldn’t mind at all, in fact.

“And when it ends,” Angel continues with the same difficulties, “he doesn’t take it too well.” 

He finally looks back at Connor at that, and seems to expect him to say he understands. But Connor doesn’t, and he shows it with a frown.

“I guess I’m trying to say,” Angel tries again, “don’t start anything with him unless you’re sure that’s what you want.”

Connor pulls himself to his feet and crosses his arms as he considers Angel coolly. “You think he’d hurt me if it didn’t work out between us?”

“No,” Angel says, looking absolutely miserable at having to explain himself. “I think he’d be hurt. More than you can imagine. More than you ever want to hurt anyone.”

It’s the last thing Connor would have expected to hear, but looking back on the past couple of weeks, he can’t say he’s all that surprised either. “Is that what you did?” he asks, and can only wonder where the frost in his voice came from.

Angel felt the cold too, and he gives Connor a wary look. “What?”

“You made him believe you loved him and then decided you didn’t?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The way Angel steps back and moves behind the armchair as though to put a barrier between them only adds a layer of ice over Connor’s mind, but his words break it at once, letting the anger through. 

“Oh, come on, Dad.” He rolls his eyes at Angel in disgust. Of all things to lie about… “I know you two sleep together.”

Angel’s hands clasp the back of the armchair. His eyes darken along with his voice. “He told you that?”

“No, your bed did,” Connor says, deadpan. “When was the last time you changed the sheets?”

Closing his eyes, Angel bows his head. When he looks up after a few seconds, his eyes are back to pleading. “It’s not what you think.”

A dark chuckle falls from Connor’s lips. Shaking his head, he steps over to the window and looks out at the darkened city at his feet. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically, and he would like nothing more than to pretend he doesn’t know about Spike and his father being together _that_ way. He’s too tired to lie to himself, though. Too tired to lie to Angel either. His anger ebbs away as he presses his forehead to the cool glass.

“Honestly,” he murmurs, “I don’t know what I think.” He can hear Angel moving behind him and wonders how far he is. “Although I should have seen it coming,” he continues, bitterness bubbling inside of him. “We do seem to have the same tastes.” 

A hand settles on his shoulder, gently, almost hesitantly. It’s heavy with a past neither of them can forget – not anymore – but also as light, as comforting as a smile. Connor turns, and sure enough the smile is there, a little apologetic, a little sad, and filled with forgiveness. They both have too much to forgive, it sometimes seems, and Connor suddenly needs to know how much his betrayal will hurt, this time.

“Do you love him?” he blurts out.

Angel’s hand squeezes his shoulder before letting go. The smile melts away. “It’s complicated.”

That’s not enough for Connor. “Is that a yes?” he insists.

“No. But it’s not a no either.” Angel lets out a quiet sigh and asks, not quite looking Connor in the eye, “Do you?”

Connor doesn’t want to answer – doesn’t want to tell his father before he even told Spike – but he’s the one who started this, and fair is fair, he supposes. “I think…” He swallows hard and speaks just a little louder. He doesn’t want Angel to believe he’s sorry, because he’s not. “I think I do, yes. Are you mad?”

“No. But if you get him pregnant I’m staking first and asking questions later.”

Connor’s eyebrows climb on his forehead. He stares at Angel in amazement. “Did you just make a _joke_?”

With a quiet snort, Angel gives a self-deprecating shrug. “Maybe I should stick to warnings.”

“Maybe, yes,” Connor says dryly, but he’s grateful that Angel broke the tension that was rising between them. “And if you’re done…” He gives Angel a questioning look. 

“Just one more thing,” Angel says very quietly. The same hand that clutched Connor’s shoulder rises again, even more hesitantly than before. This time, it curls at the back of Connor’s neck. “I love you, son. Whatever happens, just… just remember that.”

He doesn’t pull Connor to him, but his arm trembles lightly, his hand tightens just a little, and it’s all too clear he wants to. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Connor steps forward and gives him an awkward hug. Angel's arms close around him for the third time that night. Connor thinks he could get used to this.

“I know you do, Dad. I’ll see you in two days.”


	3. Chapter 3

Angel watches the elevator until the doors have closed, taking his son away again. Only then does he pick up the glass on the coffee table and wet his lips and throat. The alcohol leaves a trail of fire all the way down to the pit of his stomach. It’s almost funny how talking with Connor pushes him back to the liquid comfort he had long ago abandoned. Almost funny, but Angel isn’t laughing. He remembers the last time he drank beyond reason all too well. He’s promised himself not to take even a sip if Connor is around. Now that he’s gone, though… Another swallow, and the fire turns to illusory warmth seeping deep under his skin – the same warmth he felt when holding his boy.

It has been a long night. His mind is buzzing with everything that happened, everything he did, and said, and saw. Some things he would rather forget. Others are replaying in his mind in a loop, however hard he tries to stop them.

Unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand, he steps over to the kitchenette. He leans against the bar and picks up the notepad to start a list. 

Two bedrooms. He would like to think that’s good, but he knows Spike. A closed door has never discouraged him before, and once he’s in he knows all too well how to use his mouth to get what he wants – whether it’s with words or through other means. The pen digs into the paper, leaving a deeper mark. Angel scowls and moves on.

Blood in the fridge. His mouth twists at that. Two years earlier – was it only two years? – he worried about explaining to his son, one day, why he kept pig’s blood in the fridge. Now, Connor thinks of food for a vampire before he thinks of it for himself. Angel adds a few staples to the list. Milk. Does Connor still drink milk? Cereals. What kind, though? Bread. Everyone likes bread, he supposes. Now what to put on it… Peanut butter and jelly, maybe. But what flavor of jelly? Crunchy peanut butter or smooth? He scribbles down both, and a few kinds of jelly before moving on. Those popcorn bag things a hungry teen can throw in a microwave oven. Ice cream. Cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip ice cream. He remembers how good it was. Pasta. Pasta is good for energy, he has heard. If Connor continues to patrol with Spike – and Angel doubts there’s anything he can do to stop them – he’s going to need energy.

A stray thought drifts through his mind – there are other things Connor might do with Spike that could leave him hungry, other things that Angel won’t be able to stop. He chases the idea away with another sip of alcohol, and slashes three times through the ice cream line until it’s illegible.

Clenching his teeth, Angel leaves some space to fill in later and writes down Connor’s other demand. Video games. When he came back from his nautical vacation – after he kicked his son out of his house – Angel found a handheld game system in the boy’s room. Weeks in this world, and already enjoying things he couldn’t possibly have imagined existed before leaving Quor-toth. It only caused Angel to wonder what other discoveries his son had made that he would never know about. 

Another thought pops into his head, this one shiny and red. Too late for a car, but there are other ways to spoil his boy. He’s going to need a nice TV to play those games. And maybe sometimes he won’t feel like playing, and he’ll want to watch a good movie instead. ‘Really big television’ is followed by ‘DVD player thing’. After a short pause, Angel adds ‘movies’ to the list. No sense having the player without anything to play in it. He’ll figure out what movies to get in the morning. Classics, though, he knows that much. Things he could sit down to watch with Connor. Bonding time. He’ll have to find a way to occupy Spike elsewhere.

He jots down a few more items. Furniture. He starts writing ‘twin-sized beds’, but with a sigh he slashes through twin and writes down queen instead. Spike is all sharp elbows and flailing limbs when he isn’t curled in someone’s arms.

Then again, he thinks, grimacing, Spike barely ever let go of Connor tonight. And Connor didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Moving on so he won’t have to think of Spike’s hands all over his son, Angel writes down ‘sheets, blankets, towels’. Next to that, between parentheses, he adds ‘high thread count’, and remembers a warm, fuzzy baby blanket, light blue with little white clouds. Connor always liked to be warm and comfortable.

Frowning to himself, Angel snorts. He _always_ liked it, yes - for the too few weeks he was in Angel’s life as a baby. Was it cold, on Quor-toth? Did Holtz keep him warm enough? Did he feed him right? No milk or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, certainly. No ice cream. Then again, for all that Angel knows, Connor is allergic to peanuts and lactose intolerant. His _parents_ would know. They would know what to put in his fridge to please him. They wouldn’t need to think twice about it.

Disgusted, he drops the pen onto the notepad and walks away, the now half-empty glass still cradled in his hand. What does he know about what his son likes or dislikes, really?

He has to take another big mouthful of his drink when he reaches his bedroom and his gaze falls on the empty bed. He knows one thing Connor claims to love, but _this_ he would rather not know.

He toes his shoes off, leaving them by the door, and walks over to the bathroom. He rolls his eyes at the mess in there. Assorted supplies surround the sink. A wet washcloth on the edge of the counter is dripping water onto the floor, splattering onto the sleeve of his discarded jacket. Spike is a slob. Feeling a flash of spite, Angel can’t help wishing it’ll drive Connor up the walls.

But for all he knows, of course, Connor is worse.

Picking up the jacket with a sigh, he takes it back to the bedroom to hang in his closet. He changes his mind halfway there and sits on the bed instead. With the jacket lying across his lap, he finishes his drink in one long gulp then sets the glass on the night table. He can feel the weight of the jacket, so familiar. He can smell it too, the leather combining with his own scent. But when, with slightly trembling hands, he brings the collar to his nose, it’s another scent he picks up, slightly acrid for the fear it holds, but all too recognizable. Closing his eyes, he breathes in deep, feeling vaguely guilty but unable to stop.

He could have lost his son again, tonight. Instead, Connor will be back to live here – not with him, but close enough as to make no difference. Angel knows it’s not a good thing. A storm is rising, with winds he has fanned himself, and he shouldn’t want Connor to be anywhere near when it makes landfall. And yet… 

And yet part of him can’t help being glad. He has missed him so much…

Angel turns off the lights, but he doesn’t bother undressing. He doesn’t get beneath the sheets either. Instead, he lies down on the bed and curls up beneath his jacket. In his dreams, Connor’s eyes are as blue as his baby blanket.

*

Sprawled in Angel’s chair with his feet on his desk, Spike waits. And tries not to wonder what Connor will think of him when he comes down.

Finding something edible was easy. Waiting patiently for Angel’s five minutes to be over, not so much - especially when the five minutes stretch into more than that. How long does he need to tell Connor that Spike is wrong for him? Wrong for anyone, for that matter. Angelus never thought William was good enough for Dru. Angel doesn’t think Spike could do anything to be worthy of Buffy. And as for Connor… Spike has no illusions there. Of course he’s not what Angel would want for his son. He’s convenient to keep him safe, maybe, if Angel can’t do that himself, but other than that? Spike can just imagine the warnings and cautionary tales Connor is being given.

Funny how being wrong for anyone else still makes him an acceptable fucktoy for Angel, though. 

At long last, the elevator beeps as the doors open. Spike bounds to his feet but resists the impulse of stepping forward. He wants to see if Connor will come to him.

By some unexpected miracle, he does, and snakes an arm around Spike as he looks at the bounty of potato chips, twinkies and beef jerky on Angel’s desk. “Like old times,” he murmurs, a faint, bitter smile flirting on his lips. “Thanks.”

Too fast, his arm drops away and he grabs a package of twinkies. Spike lets him take a bite but can’t wait much longer than that.

“Did he scare you right and proper, then?” he asks, more sharply than he meant to. “Told you what a bad man I am?”

Connor finishes the first sugar bomb and gives Spike a small eyeroll. “Yeah, you’re so bad you’ve been promoted as my own personal bodyguard. I’m terrified.” 

The second twinkie disappears the same way the first did; Spike eyes the food dubiously. Maybe he should have brought back more. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Connor picks up what is left, holding the bags of chips awkwardly as he tries to open the jerky. 

Spike takes the chips, freeing his hands, and walks out with him. He bites down the questions that are rising to his lips. Connor doesn’t seem to be looking at him with disgust or fear… that has to be good, right? Then again, he’s too busy wolfing down junk food to be doing much else. 

When they reach the street, Connor fishes out his car keys from the bottom of his jeans pockets and wordlessly hands them to Spike, taking the last bag of chips in exchange. 

Spike observes him closely and notices the slight limp. “How bad do you hurt?”

Connor gives him a look that titters between exasperated and amused. “I already got mothered by Angel, I don’t need it from you too.”

Spike’s hand clenches over the keys. Since Connor is raising the topic… “So what did he say, anyway?”

Getting rid of the empty bag, Connor rubs his hands together to brush crumbs off. They’re at the car at last, and he answers before getting in, giving Spike a bland look over the roof.

“He said a balanced diet and lots of sleep is important before a big test.”

Annoyed, Spike gets in the car and starts driving. He’s not giving up, though. “Come on. What did he say?”

Connor sighs softly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

For a little while, Spike tries to decide whether that’s true or whether Connor just doesn’t want to tell him. He can’t imagine Angel _not_ issuing some kind of warning, so it has to be the latter. How bad must it for Connor not to want to repeat it? He’s still figuring out how to ask again and finally get a reply when Connor says very quietly, “There’s one thing he didn’t tell me.”

“And what is that?” Spike asks as once, eager.

Connor’s voice is completely expressionless when he answers. “When was the last time you slept with him?”

The words still ringing in his ears, Spike glances at him, but Connor’s face is turned toward the window. They have reached the highway. Without realizing what he’s doing, Spike accelerates a little more. The faster they leave LA behind, the better.

For a little while, Spike tries to figure out what to say. He wondered, when they were in Angel’s room, if Connor’s senses were sharp enough to pick up on his scent, but he figured they weren’t when Connor all but climbed on him. Now he wonders if that little make out session was some kind of revenge, a slap to Angel’s face – or nose, as the case may be.

“So you noticed,” he says, stalling a little more. He still can’t read any emotion in Connor’s words when he replies.

“It would have been hard not to. Are you going to tell me?”

If it was just the two of them, Spike probably wouldn’t tell him. He’d distract him, one way or the other. If Connor is going to be mad at him anyway, he’d rather choose the reason why. But it looks like Connor already asked Angel without getting an answer. The last thing Spike wants now is to act like Angel’s.

“When we came back from Rome,” he says quietly, and leaves it at that. 

For a moment, he’s sure that Connor will ask more questions, draw more from him than he wants to give. But time passes, Los Angeles is slowly disappearing in the rearview mirror, and Connor says nothing. Worry starts coiling around Spike and tightening until he can’t bear the silence anymore.

“A pity he didn’t warn you off any sooner, huh?” he says, wincing at how fake he sounds to his own ears.

Connor doesn’t take the bait. His face is turned away toward the window and Spike could almost believe he is asleep and hasn’t heard. But when Spike glances toward him, he can see his eyes reflected in the glass.

He wishes he could explain – explain that sex, sometimes, is just sex. That it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s just a way to relieve tension. To grieve people they have lost, including themselves. To move on. He wishes he could say any of it, but for some reason he can’t quite explain to himself, he doesn’t want to lie to Connor. Not about this.

Instead, he tries to make Connor talk. Anything he says, even if it’s angry words, has to be better than this strained silence.

“So what did he say?” he asks yet again. “He can’t have been all that convincing or you wouldn’t—”

“I asked him if he loves you,” Connor says abruptly.

For a few seconds, Spike is too shocked to reply. The boy has balls, he’s got to give him that. Darla’s contribution to his DNA, certainly.

“You ask too many questions,” he mutters after a while. “Anyone ever told you that?”

He glances at Connor again. A jolt of electricity flashes through him when, unexpectedly, he meets his gaze full on. Connor’s eyes are dark, but Spike can’t tell if the lack of light is to blame, or his mood.

“Aren’t you going to ask what he said?” 

Anger lurks just beneath those words, awaiting for one more reason to come to life. Spike feels like any move, now, any word will explode in his face. He settles for the truth again, his eyes remaining fixed on the road ahead of them.

“Don’t need to. I know he doesn’t.”

For a little while, Connor is quiet again, and this time Spike is grateful for the silence. He has said more than he wanted to, already. He still doesn’t understand how Connor manages to draw from him what he usually doesn’t care to tell even himself.

“I’m going to try to sleep,” Connor mutters eventually. “So I won’t be completely useless tomorrow.”

But while Connor is silent after that, his heartbeat and breathing don’t slow down, and his hand, on his thigh, stays curled in a tight fist. Spike pretends not to notice. They’ll have time to sort it out later, when Connor isn’t so tired, when Spike has had a cigarette or two, when Angel’s presence has faded out a little, leaving them alone at last.

An hour or so ticks by to the rhythm of the cars and trucks they pass, the road signs announcing how far they have to go still. Then Connor’s voice rises again, small and hesitant, almost plaintive, almost pleading for things to be made right; for his heart to be mended.

“Do you love him?”

Before Spike can even think of answering, Connor adds very fast, “Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

Spike sighs and reaches out to thread his fingers in Connor’s hair. “Connor… pet…”

A shiver courses through Connor at Spike’s small touch and he seems to tense. His voice a little steadier than before but still not looking at Spike, he asks, “Do you?”

Spike slows down until the car comes to a stop on the emergency lane. Cars zoom by, some of them honking. His hand clasps Connor’s shoulder and he pulls gently until Connor straightens up again and looks at him. His eyes are wide, and maybe, just maybe, they shine a little too much as they ask again the same question. 

“If I ever was insane enough to tell him I do,” Spike says very quietly, his thumb stroking Connor’s cheek, “he’d laugh right in my face. And if he said it, I’d probably laugh even harder. So does it matter?”

Connor shrugs a little. “Why wouldn’t you believe him?” he asks in a very small voice. “I believe him. I didn’t use to but I do now.”

The smile that flitters on Spike’s lips is anything but a happy smile. “As well you should, luv. You’re his son. His precious golden boy. He’d do anything for you. He already has. But me?” He chuckles. “I’m just a pain in his ass. Although not literally, alas.”

Connor’s mouth quirks into something that’s not quite a grin, not quite a grimace. “Way more than I need to know.”

Spike leans over and kisses him softly, just lips on lips. 

“We OK?” he asks, pressing his forehead to Connor’s.

Connor blinks over eyes that have rarely seemed clearer. “Yeah. We’re good.”

*

When Connor’s alarm rings at eight in the morning, he groans. He feels like he has just gone to sleep. His mind is more than a little blurry, and he’s going to need a bit of time to wake up. He reaches out blindly for the snooze button but can’t quite reach it. An arm around his waist is holding him back. He freezes, and scrambles for memories that are too slow in coming back. There is someone in his bed. A man, his mind supplies after a second or two; there’s a cock just as hard as Connor’s own pressing against his ass – boxer-clad ass, small mercies. There’s no heartbeat in the room but his own, and the bare chest now moving closer to his back is cool; vampire.

“Gonna turn ‘t off, pet?”

The quiet rumble behind his ear finishes to clear his mind. Everything that happened the previous night slams back into Connor’s head. Everything, or almost. He’s pretty sure he fell asleep in the car, but he doesn’t quite remember getting out of it or climbing into bed. And he certainly doesn’t remember inviting Spike to sleep in his bed. At least, it looks like it was no more than sleep.

“Bed is a bit small for two,” he says, yawning, as he struggles to sit up.

Spike still isn’t letting go. If anything, he curls up against Connor a little closer. His arm now presses against Connor’s lap, and it’s probably not by accident that it shifts back and forth against Connor’s cock. “Didn’t seem to mind.” The words are muffled against Connor’s hip, but they still manage to be smug.

Looking down, Connor finds that his fingers are carding through Spike’s hair as though of their own accord. He starts frowning at his own absentminded gesture, but shrugs it off. It feels… nice.

“I didn’t say I mind. Just saying the bed is small.”

A bleary eye blinks open and looks up at him, questioning. Connor’s mind is too full of questions to provide answers, though. He extirpates himself from Spike’s hold and stands, finally shutting off the alarm. Five minutes past eight, already. He has to be on the other side of campus in twenty-five minutes. Almost tripping over the clothes strewn over the floor, he makes his way to the bathroom. 

“Need help scrubbing your back?” Spike calls out after him.

He glances back, and whatever he was going to say vanishes when he sees Spike, lying out on his side and leering at him. The sheet is riding dangerously low. Connor’s mouth feels very dry, suddenly, and he can’t help but wonder if Spike is wearing anything; it certainly didn’t feel like it. He wonders, also, where his roommate is, and whether he’ll have the good idea to stay away just a couple more days. He wonders if twenty-five – make that twenty-three – minutes is enough time for _anything_. He wonders, mostly, if he’ll find his brain before he has to sit down for that test.

“Not… not this time,” he says very fast, and hurries into the bathroom. Spike’s chuckle follows him in.

His hands are all but healed when he unwraps the bandages, though they still feel tender. His face and chest aren’t quite there yet. He winces as he takes a look at himself. By tomorrow, he should look decent. But for now, he just looks like he’s been in a brawl. His lips feel healed, but the cuts could probably break open again too easily. With a careful finger, he traces the bandages over his eyebrow and cheek. He could take them off now. But when he walks out of the bathroom a few minutes later, holding a towel securely at his waist, the bandages are still in place.

He tries to ignore Spike’s eyes as they follow him to his dresser, but he can practically _feel_ his gaze ghosting over his skin like a sensuous touch. 

“Still hurts?” Spike asks, his tone making it clear that all Connor needs to do is ask and he’ll make the hurt go away any way he can.

Heat rises at the back of Connor’s neck until he’s sure he has to be scarlet. “I’m all right. I heal fast.” He hurries into a fresh pair of boxers, feeling inordinately proud of himself for managing not to flash Spike. A t-shirt is next, then pants. Only when he is fully clothed does he allow himself to turn back – and is treated to a full frontal view before Spike hikes up his jeans. Whatever brain-power returned to Connor under the mostly cold spray of the shower flies out the window. 

Twelve minutes – that’s definitely not enough time. 

Spike gives him a knowing look and smirks. “Know where the closest sewer access is?”

Connor needs a few seconds to process his words, and when he does, he frowns. “No. No I don’t know, and no you’re not coming with me.”

Spike picks up his t-shirt from the floor but seems to think better of it. Letting it drop again, he comes to the dresser and pulls a t-shirt from the open drawer. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says as he slides it on.

Connor’s fingers itch. He’s not certain whether he wants to help smooth the familiar cotton down Spike’s chest, or pull it off again. Neither thing would be helpful as far as tests go, but just the same… Blue is a nice color on Spike. It sets off his eyes. Connor has been told he looks good in that t-shirt before, but it’s the first time he understands why.

Clearing his throat, he turns away and picks up the t-shirt Spike just dropped, along with the rest of the clothes that litter the floor. The only thing _not_ on the floor is Spike’s leather duster, lying on his roommate’s bed. 

“It’s a test,” he says with a glance back at Spike. “You think just anybody can sit in?” His fingers playing over the smooth, almost silky fabric of a shirt that isn’t his, he walks the clothes over to the laundry basket. 

“If I can’t be in the room with you I’ll be—”

“Right here,” he cuts in, facing Spike fully. “Waiting for me to be done.”

“That’s not—” Spike starts, but he doesn’t let him finish.

“I _said_ —” Crossing his arms, he walks over to stand in front of Spike, with only a couple of inches between them. “—you’ll be waiting here for me.”

He tries to stare Spike down, and for a moment he thinks it’s working – until Spike starts grinning, clearly amused. “Nice try, pet. But you’re not your father.”

The heat climbing at the back of Connor’s neck, this time, feels too much like embarrassment. He feels like he’s been caught borrowing clothes from his father’s closet – except that Angel’s clothes fit Connor better and are easier to wear than his confidence. 

“Would he beat you up if you didn’t do what he said?” he asks, the words grating his throat.

Spike’s grin fades and his eyes harden, evaluating Connor. “He would,” he says calmly. “I usually give as good as I get, though. Plan to give it a go when you’re still covered in bruises?”

Connor shakes his head. “No. My approach’s a bit different.”

It’s still a little awkward, kissing a guy, but he thinks he’s getting better at it. His right hand cups Spike’s cheek and he brushes their mouths together. The left one settles at his waist, pulling up the t-shirt until he feels smooth, cool skin beneath his fingers. He traces Spike’s lips with his tongue and presses in gently, pulling back as soon as Spike starts to reciprocate.

“Now will you stay?” he asks, looking at him from beneath his eyelashes.

Spike licks his lips and blinks. He looks _hungry_ , but Connor doesn’t think for a second that Spike is after his blood.

“Will I get more of that when you come back?” Spike asks very low.

Grinning, Connor steps away. “If you’ve got real food waiting for me that’s a distinct possibility.” He picks up the messenger bag from the desk, the hoodie from the back of the chair, and turns back to Spike. “I should be done around noon.”

“Do I get another sample before you go?” Spike says, then purses his lips.

Connor chuckles weakly. He wants to – he really does – but the clock says he has eight minutes left. He’s going to have to run. “Don’t be greedy. You’re not supposed to distract me, remember?”

Spike gives him a small eye roll, but he doesn’t insist. Just for that, Connor does give him another kiss. A small, slow kiss that’s a promise for more. It’s harder than ever to pull away.

Finally leaving, Connor stops at the door and looks back one last time. “And Spike? If you’re dumb enough to try and follow me anyway, I’ll know. And I won’t be happy.”

The guilty look on Spike’s face is answer enough.

Connor runs. Not as fast as he would if his entire left side wasn’t a mass of bruises, but he’s used to the pain, he has learned long ago to shove it in a box until he has time for it. He reaches the class with seconds to spare, and is glad to find a forgotten energy bar at the bottom of his bag when he pulls out a pencil and calculator. 

For the next three and a half hours, he does his best to focus on the questions in front of him and the small bubbles he’s slowly filling in. Every now and then, his mind tries to drift away – toward his dorm room, Los Angeles, even Quor-toth – but every time it happens he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second, and redirects his thoughts. 

No time now, not for the pain, not for the confused and tangled knots of feelings that have wrapped so tightly around his chest that he’s not sure how he can still breathe, not for fear or excitement about what’s going to happen later today, or tomorrow night when they return to LA. 

He’ll sort it all out later. For now, he has a stats final to ace.

*

When the door opens a few minutes after eleven, Spike doesn’t move from where he’s lying on the bed, hands crossed behind his head, but his lips settle on a smug smirk. It took Connor longer than he expected, but he knew he would be back early. There was just no way—

“Hi Conn—”

He looks up at that, already frowning at the kid who just entered the room. He’s a head taller than Connor, probably twenty pounds heavier, most of it in the shoulders, but the only important thing is – he’s not who Spike expected. 

He glares, and the kid stops on the threshold, clearly startled.

“Uhh… Hello?” The kid finally steps into the room and closes the door. He comes to the empty bed and starts setting a duffelbag down. He notices the duster lying there before Spike has to do something he’d end up regretting, and drops the bag on the floor instead. “I’m Matt. Connor’s roommate?”

Spike sits up, his back to the wall behind him. He keeps glaring. There go his hopes of getting a nooner.

“And you are?” the nuisance asks when Spike stills doesn’t say anything.

Spike grunts and gives his name. It’s apparently not enough.

“You’re… a friend of Connor’s?” Matt asks, looking more and more uncomfortable.

“Something like that.” 

“Is he around?”

“Test.”

“And he said you could stay here.”

“Obviously.”

“O…K then.” Matt gestures vaguely toward the computer behind him and retreats there as though a few feet would be enough if Spike wasn’t on such a strict diet. “I’ll just…”

He sits with his back to Spike, but for the next half hour Spike continues to scowl at him, and it’s clearly fraying his nerves. When the door opens again, this time, at last, on Connor, Matt looks downright relieved and he beams at him.

Connor throws an apologetic glance at Spike before turning to his roommate. “Hi Matt.”

“Hey! There you are! How—” He lets out a low whistle and his eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead. “Dude, what happened to your face?”

Shrugging, Connor scratches his cheek with a finger, his nail stopping just shy of the bandage. “Oh, that. Nothing. Just a small disagreement with someone last night. It looks worse than it is.”

“If you say so.” Matt does _not_ sound convinced. His voice drops to a near whisper and he glances at Spike. “It wasn’t him, was it? He looks kinda mean and he’s been trying to dig a hole trough the back of my head with his eyes.”

Connor chuckles as he goes to drop his bag and hoodie on his desk. “Yeah, sorry. Manners aren’t his strong suit. But he wouldn’t hurt you.” After a beat, he adds, as though an afterthought, “Or me.”

Spike’s scowl, now finding a new target. “At least I’m not talking about other people where they can hear.”

“Don’t you?” Connor says, as sweet and tart as lemon pie. “I seem to remember you doing just that last night.” His eyebrow rises, pulling at the bandage, and he winces.

Spike clenches his fingers on the sheets. He would like to get up and soothe that pang of pain with a touch of his lips, but he’s not sure how Connor would react. Being all over him in front of Angel was fun, but Spike doesn’t know if Connor is ready to let anyone else know about them. He’d rather play things safe for now rather than get burned. “That was different,” he mutters, and remains right where he is. He’s all too aware that Matt is watching them with curiosity.

Connor stays by his desk, leaning back against it. “Sure,” he says, amused, then glances toward the kitchen. “Didn’t you promise me food?”

“You’re early, it’s not—” A knock on the door interrupts him. He jumps to his feet and goes to open before either boy can move. “Hold that thought.”

As he expected, a deliveryman is standing behind the door, a helper at his side. He hands Spike a receipt to sign.

“You ordered pizza?” Connor says behind him, almost laughing.

Spike glances back just as finishes the loop of the L on the signature. “What, you expected me to cook?”

He directs the two men in and each of them sets a pile of six large pizza boxes on the half wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the dorm room. They leave happy – Spike scribbled a generous tip on the receipt. When he turns back to Connor, smiling widely, Connor gives him an incredulous look. This time, he really laughs.

“You ordered enough pizza for the entire floor!”

Spike shrugs. “Didn’t know what you liked so I got one of each. Plus with you being a growing boy and all…”

He was thinking, also, that he’d help Connor work up an appetite, but that didn’t work out so well. Spike sneaks a glare at Matt who followed Connor to the food and is completely oblivious. They open a box each and pull out their first slices, but Connor isn’t done with the questions – is he ever?

“How did you pay for all that?” he asks before taking a bite. Plain cheese, Spike notes for future reference.

“Nicked your—” Another glance at Matt shows that maybe he’s not as oblivious as Spike would like him to be. “Angel’s credit card.”

Connor starts choking on his food. When Matt, laughing a little, taps his back, Spike wants to rip the idiot boy’s head off. First ruining Spike’s afternoon, then eating the food he bought for Connor, and now _touching_ him when Spike won’t let himself do as much? A pity he’s human. Stupid soul.

“You _what_?” Connor asks, his eyes watery and his tone growing worried.

Spike gestures dismissively. “He has as many of these things as he has cars. I’ve had it for a month and he still hasn’t noticed. Want me to get you one?”

Laughing again, Connor shakes his head and comes to him. Under Matt’s suddenly very interested gaze, he kisses Spike’s cheek. “You’re insane.”

It’s not a word Spike likes all that much, but it’s neither here nor now. He has half a mind to steal another kiss – a proper one, this time - but there’s another knock on the door and this time Connor goes to open. Apparently, a couple of starved students noticed the delivery and remembered that Connor and Matt are their best friends on campus. Spike rolls his eyes when Connor waves them in. Before long, a dozen boys are crammed in the room, stuffing their faces and talking loudly about the tests they have taken already and the finals still to come. Connor moves fluidly amongst them, answering inquiries about his fading bruises with sheepish grins and enjoying himself, it seems.

Spike is back to seating on the bed and feeling a bit disgruntled. This was _not_ how he had imagined things would go. Then again, it’s the first time he has the chance to see Connor act like what he truly is – barely more than a kid. It’s… interesting. Enlightening, even. And when Connor, munching on his fifth or sixth slice, comes to sit cross-legged next to him and gives him the softest smile, Spike replies in kind. He’s just realized that he likes this part of Connor as much as he likes the wilder boy he’s been patrolling with for the past couple of weeks. Maybe he’ll even tell Connor, later. The horde of teenager-shaped locusts won’t stay there forever – or at least he hopes they won’t. His plan got a little disrupted, but he doesn’t despair to get some action yet.

*

The twelve pizzas disappear faster than Connor would have thought possible, and soon – not soon enough, judging by the muscle ticking in Spike’s jaw – the room is empty save for the two of them, the empty pizza boxes, and Matt. Sitting at his desk in front of his computer, he looks like he’s IM’ing someone; his girlfriend, probably. He told Connor his next final is at four. That’s four hours too many.

“Hey Matt, help me take the boxes down to the trash container?”

Matt looks at him, clearly annoyed. He doesn’t like being interrupted while he’s chatting online, and he long ago stopped being amused by Connor’s insistence that they keep the room clean even when they’re not expecting parental visits. Connor gives him a pointed look, though, and rather than protesting, Matt glances at Spike. He’s still sitting on the bed, and glaring at Matt again.

“Huh, sure, whatever.”

Connor could have taken the boxes down by himself, but he uses these few minutes away from prying ears to remind Matt of all the times he and his girlfriend wanted some privacy. Connor always made himself scarce without asking questions. It’s time for Matt to return the favor. For a few moments, it looks like Matt _will_ ask questions – questions which Connor can imagine all too well even if he doesn’t know how he would answer them. He finally nods without a word, and when he looks away a slight blush is coloring his cheeks. Connor feels a bit guilty about kicking him out, but it’s not like Matt will mind all that much crashing at his girlfriend’s place a couple more days. 

When they return to the dorm, Spike is at the window, smoking a cigarette. Matt frowns at him as he empties his duffelbag into his laundry basket and fills it with clean clothes, but he doesn’t comment. There’s still a bit more color than usual in his cheeks, and Connor has no doubt that, before they all leave for the summer, the rumor will spread through the dorm that he’s gay. He’s a bit surprised to realize he doesn’t care what gossip Matt spreads. There are things going on in his life a little more important than whether he’s dating a boy or a girl – staying alive being the main one, right now, although passing his last final is not far down the list. Making sure Spike stops glaring like he’s going to vamp out any minute does come before that sociology test, though.

Grabbing his textbook from his desk, Connor sits on the bed, propped up on his pillow, and reads – or tries to – until Matt is finally ready.

“So, good luck with your final exam, then,” Matt says, a little awkward as he leaves. “And if I don’t see you, have a great summer.”

Connor pretends he doesn’t hear the innuendo in those last words. “The same to you. Bye.”

Spike started turning away from the window when Matt said his goodbyes; by the time the door closes, he’s already across the room and standing in front of Connor, leering. Connor expected as much. Grinning, he puts his book down and opens his arms to Spike, who loses no time in climbing onto the bed. Straddling Connor’s thighs, he kisses him hard, his tongue slipping in to rediscover Connor’s, his fingers kneading his shoulders. It’s all too clear that he’s wanted to do this for a while – and he’s not the only one.

Connor kisses him back fiercely, not caring one bit that Spike tastes and smells like cigarettes. He’ll protest later – maybe; if he remembers – but as he caresses Spike’s palate with the tip of his tongue, it really doesn’t matter. His hands press on Spike’s back, forcing him closer until Spike’s weight slowly pushes him down. Soon, they’re lying on the bed, Connor’s head at an awkward angle but he doesn’t care about that either, doesn’t care about anything but—

He gasps when at a sharp movement his body decides to remind him that he’s not completely healed yet. Dull pain radiates through his side, and for a second he holds his breath. He doesn’t need to push Spike back; already, he’s sitting up, his eyes a curious mix of lust and apology.

“’M sorry, pet. I forgot.”

His fingers flitter over the hem of Connor’s t-shirt and tug it upward then off, revealing discolored bruises. Connor braces himself for the touch he knows is coming, but Spike might as well be caressing him with a feather for all the gentleness of his questing fingers.

“I forgot too,” Connor replies wryly. “It was fine until I…” He clears his throat. Arching up to press his cock to Spike’s is one thing; saying it with a straight face, something else entirely. “It’s my fault.”

“Fine, huh?” Spike says, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. “We’ll have to work on making it more than fine.”

His hands resting on either side of Connor hold his weight up as he slowly descends again, but rather than seeking Connor’s mouth his lips trail over his jaw before coming up and across his cheek. He alternates tiny flicks of his tongue and kisses as soft as a light breeze, and each touch sends flashes of want down Connor’s spine and straight to his groin. 

He has just enough brainpower left to ask the question that has been nagging him on and off for a little while already.

“Spike… wait…”

Spike freezes against him then pushes away with a resigned sigh.

“And there we go,” he mutters. “What’s the excuse, now? Gonna tell me you need to study?”

Connor shakes his head once – although he should study, or at least rest; he almost fell asleep this morning – and tries to smile reassuringly, but he can’t really manage to, not until he knows.

“I just need to ask… you know… about your soul?”

Spike gives him a blank look. “What about it?”

Gulping, Connor looks down, not quite able to hold his gaze. “You know… I’ve heard about the loophole on An—”

“Not an issue here,” Spike cuts in, grinning again. He passes his tongue over his lips before asking. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Connor’s hands settle at his waist, his thumbs sneaking beneath his t-shirt to touch cool, silky skin. His eyes creep back up to Spike’s and he tries to talk despite the lump in his throat. He doesn’t remember being this jittery before, not with Tracy, not… _before_. What the hell is wrong with him?

“Maybe… we can keep it slow—” He can see at once that slow is not the right word. Spike is pulling away again. He hurries and tries to fix it. “I mean, not slow, not as slow as we’ve been going, but just… you know?”

He groans, frustrated with himself. How would Spike know when he doesn’t even know himself what he means?

Spike frowns and tilts his head just an inch. “There’s plenty of things we can do without actually fucking.”

A weight lifts off Connor’s chest and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His thumbs start rubbing small circles on his Spike’s skin again. Apparently Spike _does_ know what he means. That’s… good. Very good.

“What kind of things, then?” he asks with a goofy smile.

Spike’s grin is absolutely wicked. In a fluid movement, he pulls his t-shirt off and lets it drop to the floor with Connor’s. His hand caresses down his own chest and Connor’s eyes follow it hungrily across a dusky areola, over pale skin and rippling abs. By the time those long fingers are twisting the button of Spike’s jeans undone, Connor’s cock is aching, and all he can think of is to touch everywhere Spike did. He pulls Spike down at the same time as he leans forward, and makes a small sound, low in his throat, when his open mouth lands just a little beneath Spike’s right nipple. He licks a path upward and flicks his tongue at the peaking nub.

“Don’t mind a bit of teeth,” Spike says, and hisses softly when Connor switches to the left nipple and takes it between his teeth as gently as he knows how. He cradles the back of Connor’s head in his hand and presses him forward. “There you go. Just a little… ah fuck!”

Spike bucks his hips forward when Connor’s enthusiasm gets the best of him and he bites too hard – or at least, he thinks he does. But when he tries to pull back, Spike holds him right where he is, his fingers tightening over Connor’s hair.

 _OK, then,_ Connor thinks, as aroused as he is amused. _Vampires don’t mind biting. Who would have thought._

He lets go of Spike’s distended nipple only to rake his teeth down his chest. Spike helps him by arching forward, his crotch pressing rhythmically against Connor’s. When he’s as low a he can get without pain flaring through his side, Connor closes his mouth over Spike’s flesh and sucks hard, drawing a quiet hum from him. He only lets go after a few seconds and pulls back to look at his handiwork. A pale pink mark has blossomed on Spike’s lower ribs. Connor touches it with his thumb, and catches Spike looking down at it too. The next second, their eyes meet and it’s like steel clashing against steel. Sparks fly and ignite the both of them. 

They kiss almost furiously, their hands briefly meeting and clutching each other before moving on to slide over burning skin on one side, warming flesh on the other. Always supporting most of his weight on his forearm, Spike carefully nudges Connor’s legs apart until he’s between them, rocking faster against Connor’s cock and it’s both too good and not enough.

Connor has given up trying to sneak his hands beneath the waistband of Spike’s too tight jeans and is cupping his ass with both hands. He breaks the kiss, gasping, and blinks a few times before he can find his words.

“Will you…” His voice is so raw, so needy, he barely recognizes it. “Can we…”

He looks at Spike pleadingly, willing him to understand again, but Spike shakes his head as he slows down his thrusting. 

“We can do anything you want, pet, but you’re gonna have to be clearer than that. What do you want?”

It suddenly seems easier to show him that to tell him. Trying not to think too much about what he’s doing so he won’t freak out, Connor shifts his hands from Spike’s ass to his crotch and, with some difficulty, takes hold of the zipper. Spike stops moving and lifts his hips up a little, giving him room to maneuver. His lips pinched tight in concentration, Connor eases the zipper down carefully, knowing that there’s nothing but hard flesh beneath it. His free hand cradles Spike’s cock as soon as it appears and simply holds it, feeling the weight of it, the dampness at the tip, and how hard it is. Because of him. For him. 

A little bit entranced, Connor barely notices when Spike kicks his jeans off. His hand starts moving over Spike’s cock, the movement both intensely familiar and absolutely foreign. He’s done this before, more times than he cares to remember, in both his lives, with the same urgency twisting his belly, the same relief and shame afterwards. He has never held another man’s cock before, though; has never imagined every touch to a cock other than his own would send jolts of want and need coursing through him.

He looks up to find Spike watching him intently, his eyes burning golden. He licks his dry lips and swallows back a moan.

“Will you touch—”

Before he can finish, Spike’s hand is on the fastenings of his pants, ripping the buttons free then sliding inside, gentler now, to guide Connor’s cock out. His thumb swipes over the wet head and Connor groans, then again when Spike’s tightening fist slides down to the root before coming back up torturously slow.

For the briefest instant when Spike looks down, Connor wonders if he is comparing Connor’s cock to _his_ ; wonders if he’s going to be found lacking; if Spike will go back to _his_ bed to forget Connor’s inexperience and doubts.

The fear doesn’t have time to take hold of him, though, not when Spike is lowering himself again until their cocks brush together, flesh to flesh for the first time. Connor’s eyes close tight and he moans, his hand tightening reflexively over Spike’s cock while Spike’s hand does the same, staving off his orgasm. 

For a few seconds, Spike remains very still against him. When Connor opens his eyes again, Spike’s face is no more than an inch away, his gaze searching. Whatever he finds, it must be enough because his tight hold slackens a little, his hand closing on both their cocks.

“Together, now,” he says very low.

After a beat, Connor understands and follows his lead, his hand closing just beneath Spike’s and holding their cocks tight together. 

When Spike starts moving, Connor thinks he’s going to die. When their mouths meet again, he changes his mind; he’s already died and this has to be heaven. But when he - _they_ come, he’s ready to offer his soul if he can only have this – have Spike – until the day he dies.

*

Lying on his side next to Connor, Spike tries not to grin too widely. A bit of frottage and mutual handjobs is hardly what he hoped for – and neither is his bedmate falling asleep before the afterglow has even faded. Still, he can’t begrudge Connor a bit of sleep. The poor lad had a rough night, and a couple hours of sleep contorted on his car seat followed by barely more than that in a rather uncomfortable bed can’t have been nearly enough. He’ll let him have his rest now, and later maybe they can pick up where they left things off. Or maybe they can have another round of frottage. Now that he knows Connor isn’t leading him on, he can wait a bit more for the full course meal. Appetizers before that will only make dessert that much sweeter when they get to it.

When Connor’s heartbeat begins to accelerate a little, slipping out of deep sleep and drifting toward consciousness, Spike allows himself the gentle touches he was afraid would wake him. Propped on his elbow, he considers where to start. Connor’s resting cock seems like a good place, but he doesn’t want to startle him right out of his sleep. So instead, he caresses slow, sinuous lines over Connor’s chest, circling his nipples one after the other until they tighten, pale dusty roses on the canvas of Connor’s skin. 

He ghosts a caress over his throat, frowning slightly when Connor jerks, still asleep yet uncomfortable at the touch. They’ll have to work on that. Spike doesn’t plan to bite him – he doesn’t need to be told Angel would rip out his fangs if he tried something that stupid – but he’s a vamp, after all, and he has a thing for necks and throats. He’s also pretty sure a hickey right at the crook of that lovely curve would drive Angel absolutely _insane_ without the risk of too much bodily harm. A couple punches would be worth the look on his face. There’s no way he’ll get to do that if Connor continues to flinch at the smallest touch there, though.

Continuing his way upward, he traces Connor’s lips with just the tip of his index, and smiles when Connor’s tongue peeks out to flick against his finger. Leaning in close, he brushes his lips against Connor’s mouth.

“Awake yet?” he whispers.

Connor hums quietly but his eyes remain closed. This time, Spike presses his mouth harder against his, and slips his tongue in. Lazy fingers tangle in his air, holding him in place just a little longer when he tries to pull back.

“Sleepyhead,” he says, almost chuckling, and presses a quick kiss at the hollow of Connor’s throat. 

Connor’s fingers tighten painfully, but Spike is already moving away, trailing kisses over his cheek as though Connor hadn’t reacted at all. When he reaches the butterfly bandage on his cheekbone, he licks around it with tiny flicks of his tongue. 

Connor shivers, his fingers growing lax again. “Yeah,” he says, his voice roughened by sleep. “Totally wasn’t planning on falling asleep on you. Or under you. Whichever.”

He finally opens his eyes, and there’s a spark in them, something quietly happy that makes Spike grin just as much as his words – makes him want to take him in his arms and hold him. Damn, but he’s getting downright sappy in his old age.

“’S all right,” he says quietly, continuing his journey upward to kiss Connor’s eyebrow as softly as he knows how. The bandage is almost loose and it moves under his lips.

He gets another small shiver for his trouble, but the quiet noise that accompanies it is not one of pain. He keeps on trailing kisses over Connor’s face, coming back to his lips, but before he can reach them Connor says very quietly. “You know last night… when he wanted to talk to me...”

Silencing a grunt, Spike pulls away so that he can see Connor better. Speaking about Angel _now_ also wasn’t something he had in mind.

“What about it?” he asks, letting a quiet sigh tell Connor he’s not too fond of the topic at the moment.

Connor doesn’t take the hint. His face is almost as blank as his voice when he says, “He asked if I loved you.”

A blink is the extent of Spike’s outward reply, but inside his head, confusion reigns. Yet another thing he didn’t expect – this one, though, scares him a little. He lies down again, his cheek on the pillow next to Connor’s and his arm draped around him. “He always was a nosy bastard,” he mutters. “Always poking his nose in other people’s business.”

He clamps his mouth shut after that, and when Connor turns his face toward him, he closes his eyes too.

“Don’t you want to know what I said?” Connor asks, echoing their conversation from the previous night. He didn’t sound this nervous then, though.

“I can wait. No rush.”

Connor chuckles. His body moves under Spike’s arm as he rolls onto his side. He lets out a breathless gasp and freezes. Opening his eyes again, Spike catches the end of a pained grimace. Silly boy forgot about his bruises again. He starts pushing on his side to make him roll back again, but Connor resists, a slight grin pulling at his lips. “Since when are you so patient?”

And he’s right, of course. It’s not patience at play here; it’s just plain worry. Spike can’t recall the last time he’s been given those words by someone who meant them, but he can recall plenty of occasions when he’s heard he wasn’t loved, quite a few of them after a shag. He’s not too eager to repeat the experience, and yet, he can’t help but ask, injecting as much disinterest in his voice as he can manage, “What did you tell him, then?”

Connor’s hand shakes just the tiniest bit when it rests on his cheek. “I told him I love you.”

Spike lets a beat pass before he allows his eyebrow to rise. “And… you said that to piss him off or you—”

The smile fades from Connor’s face as he says, sounding a little exasperated, “Spike.”

Spike closes his mouth. And waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“I love you,” Connor says again, more softly now, and lays a chaste kiss on his lips.

Part of Spike wants to scoff. They’ve known each other for what – two weeks? That’s not enough time. Connor can’t mean that. It’s just the afterglow kicking in, and the tiredness, and…

And maybe, just maybe, he really means it.

Because Spike certainly does. “Love you too, Connor.”

*

At seven minutes past eight that morning, Angel gives up on using the fax machine, cursed artifact if there ever was one, and has Harmony send his order out.

At eight fifty-two, he’s in the empty apartment he has chosen – close to his, just not close enough that he’ll hear anything, he hopes – and watching as the first pieces of furniture come in.

At ten thirty, the groceries are delivered and he puts them in the fridge and cupboards himself, not trusting anyone else to do it. He puts the blood jar next to the milk carton. It looks wrong. So very wrong.

At eleven forty-five, the installation of the television, video and game system is complete. The internet line is connected as well, and the tech guys assure him the computer set up is top of the line, with the flawless version of Windows that Microsoft only sells to those who can afford it. Angel nods and pretends he understands what clear glass has to do with computers. Maybe they mean the flat screen?

At twelve o’clock sharp, Angel walks through the apartment with a notepad. He fills two pages.

The next round of deliveries starts at two in the afternoon. By five, everything is perfect and Angel does a final walk through. He stops in front of the second bedroom – the smallest one – the one he fears won’t be used very long, if at all. He can’t help scowling a little. This is not what he wanted for Connor, not any of it. Especially not Spike – because, tasteless jokes aside, Angel sort of hoped he’d get grandchildren, some day. The kind of grandchildren that isn’t full-grown and evil from birth. The kind he could have spoiled—

Who is he kidding? He wasn’t planning on surviving the year, and even if he had, he’d have stayed the hell away from Connor rather than risk bringing attention to him. And now…

He sighs again. This is _not_ good. How is he going to get his son out of this whole mess?

“Angel. You said you needed a spell?”

Lost in his thoughts, Angel didn’t hear Wesley walk in, and his words startle him. He turns around, slipping his hands in his pockets so Wesley won’t see they’re shaking.

“Wes. Thanks for coming.”

He means that, more than his cold tone would imply. He has only caught glimpses of Wes and Gunn today when he went back to his office to order what was missing. Neither of them looked happy. And Lorne… When he went to ask him about video game systems, Lorne refused to answer until Angel had mumbled his way through a few lines of Mandy. Even then, he kept frowning, and while he helped Angel get what he needed, he refused to say what he had read from his singing.

Angel can’t help but wonder if Lorne ever picks up on bedroom fantasies when he reads people – can’t help but wonder if he should explain. Not that he wants to. Not that he’d even know where to start.

Clearing his throat, he comes back to the present and focuses on Wesley, who is watching him with curiosity. His eyes aren’t as bloodshot as they have been in the past few weeks. That has to be good. “Did you ever figure out how to permanently ward a place against spying?”

Wesley’s eyebrows climb in surprise. “Permanently is a tall order, but I did find something that works for a few weeks at a time.” His tone and expression sharpen into disapproval. “I’m surprised you’d want to hide anything from Wolfram & Hart.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Angel says blankly. “But Connor might want some privacy.”

“Connor.” Wesley looks around the apartment, and Angel wonders if he’s aware that he’s scratching at his neck, where a scar once lay over his skin, a reminder of his most egregious mistake. Sometimes, Angel could swear he can still see that pale line curling around his friend’s throat. Wesley’s hand drops again as his eyes return to Angel. “I see. This place is for him, then?”

“Him and Spike,” Angel forces himself to say. He’ll have to get used to the idea sooner or later.

Wesley nods absently. “You have your son back. You must be very happy.”

There’s something in his voice when he says that last word, something dark that speaks of stakes, steel cages, shiny orbs and red-haired witches. Something that’s all but a promise. 

Angel gives him a scathing look. “Happy, Wes?” he says very low. He thinks he just might shout if he doesn’t force himself to be calm. “Should I be? I did what I had to so that he would get a life. A real life. And you took it away and for what?”

Wesley winces and looks away. He seems older, suddenly. Wolfram & Hart may not have his soul, at least not yet, but they are sucking the life right out of him. “Knowledge,” he sighs. “Pandora’s box was always far too attractive, I’m afraid, but there is no closing it back, however much I wish...”

His voice trails off into a misery as thick as the haze of alcohol that has surrounded him lately. Angel ignored the latter because two and a half centuries didn’t teach him anything about how to mourn a loved one. The misery, though, he has just caused, even if he didn’t mean to. “Wes…” His friend looks at him – they’re still friends, aren’t they? “I’m not _happy_ that Connor got pulled into this mess,” he says quietly. “But I do have my son back. And he’s all right.”

For long seconds, Wesley considers him in silence. Eventually, he inclines his head, just barely. “I’ll work on your spell, then,” he says, back in business mode. “And with your permission, I’d like to talk to Connor once he’s installed comfortably. Get his insight on the memory spell.”

Angel frowns and crosses his arms. “I don’t think—”

“You’d be welcome to sit in with us, of course,” Wesley cuts in. “Make sure I don’t cross any lines.”

Angel catches on. It’s not Connor Wes wants to talk to. It’s him. Away from prying ears, with an excuse already made should anyone wonder what it was they talked about. He nods. Maybe there’s hope for all of them yet.

*

Since the night his intoxicated mind played tricks on him and made him see one boy when another knelt in front of him, Angel has been careful not to drink too much. He was afraid of what would happen if – when he would. Afraid of what he would see. Imagine. Say. Do.

But tonight… tonight he doesn’t care.

They’ve been gone for a full day. He knows Spike. He knows how convincing he can be. He knows how far he can get in a single day.

He knows what they’re doing _right now_.

The knowledge burns, like the alcohol sliding down his throat – like the images in his head, bright and clear, too much bared flesh blinding him. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to chase them away, but without success. He gives in.

He always knew he would, in the end.

One hand tugs his shirt out of his pants then slides down his chest, leaving a row of undone buttons in its wake. The other puts down the empty glass and picks up the mostly full bottle. When he sets it down again, it’s empty too.

The metal of his belt buckle is smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. The leather slips out of the loops with a whisper; it falls to the carpet with a muted thud.

He sits down on the sofa, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. A small, tiny, minuscule part of him says it’s _wrong_. He doesn’t say otherwise. He just waits for the alcohol to finish dulling his mind, dulling his understanding of _shouldn’t_ and _never_. His senses, though, remain just as sharp. He can smell Connor all around him. He was here just hours ago – hurt, bleeding, and then aroused. He was sitting right here, Spike wrapped around him, and Angel can almost feel the heat that seeped into the sofa. He can see him in his mind’s eye, standing in front of him, wearing Angel’s shirt. It’s too large on him, and makes him look like a child. Angel shakes his head. He’s not a child anymore. If Angel had any doubt about that, Connor’s smile, sweet as sin and sharp as fangs, would be enough to set him right.

“Take it off.”

Connor’s eyes sparkle. He doesn’t say a word but his hands are already unbuttoning. A small shrug and the shirt slides off him, pooling at his feet, leaving Angel’s eyes free to feast on a pale, smooth chest.

A bruised chest. 

Angel feels each of these blue-black bruises as though they had been inflicted on him. His fingers flex on his thigh, but he doesn’t reach out. Not yet.

“Take it _all_ off,” he says with a cluck of his tongue.

Connor’s smile wavers, chastised. His voice is a murmur. “Yes Daddy.”

Angel follows every slow movement of Connor’s hands as they undo the fastening of his pants and shove them down. His cock is standing at half mast, bobbing a little, flushed and beautiful.

“Good boy,” Angel croons, and opens his arms. “Come to Daddy.”

The smile returns, bright as sunshine, warm as hell. Connor climbs onto his lap, a knee on either side of Angel’s slightly parted thighs. Angel’s hands welcome him, the right one cradling his cock, the left brushing along his torso, caressing each bruise in turn.

“Does it hurt?” he asks very quietly.

“A little.” Connor bucks into his hand; his cock is filling with blood, heat and life. “Make it better?”

Angel’s hand slides to the back of Connor’s neck and into his hair, cupping gently. He draws him forward, slowly, savoring the feel of him before he gets a taste. His lips are cut, bloody. Angel remembers the taste of his son’s blood all too well. He dreams of it, sometimes, like amputees dream of running faster than the wind.

He laps at the cut with the tip of his tongue, slow and gentle – as slow, as gentle as his fist pumping over Connor’s cock. A tiny moan passes Connor’s lips and caresses Angel’s. He pushes his tongue in, strokes Connor’s tongue, his teeth, his palate – everywhere. He wants to know every little bit of his son, inside and out. There’s so much he doesn’t know…

Another moan, and a bead of precome rises at the tip of Connor’s cock. Angel swipes it with his palm, then uses the lubrication to slide his fist a little tighter, a little faster over hot, hard flesh. 

Connor gasps. His eyes are wide, his breathing faster, his heart like drums – but they’re not marching to war. He lays his cheek on Angel’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth until the shirt slides back and they’re skin to skin. His lips brush against Angel’s throat when he whimpers.

“Shhh… I’m here. Daddy’s here, son.”

Connor’s arms slide beneath Angel’s shirt and around his chest. He rocks into Angel, trapping his cock between them, painting lines of lust on Angel’s stomach.

“That’s it,” Angel murmurs, leaning in to press his face to the crook of Connor’s neck. “That’s my boy.”

As Angel shifts to game face, Connor shudders, and bucks harder still. He practically keens. “Daddy _please_ …”

Angel parts his lips for an open mouth kiss against that perfect throat, right where it once lay gaping, bloody and still. “Come for me,” he whispers. “Come for Daddy.”

Connor throws his head back and shouts when Angel’s fangs slide into him. He comes hard, his release splattering over Angel’s hand and chest.

For an instant, Angel remains perfectly still. Then he opens his eyes, blinking several times to readjust his vision. He shifts out of game face. His tongue hurts where his fangs pierced it, but the pain is distant, almost like an echo. His cock lays on the folded waistband of his pants, limp and spent. A stain is forming beneath the tip. He wipes his hand on his shirt and closes his eyes again.

He wonders what Connor calls Spike when they’re in bed.

*

The next day, when Connor comes in from his last test at five, Spike pounces on him before he has even closed the door. 

Connor laughs and drops his bag to the floor. He lets himself be kissed for a little while, lets Spike’s hands roam on him – he kisses back and does a little roaming himself, actually – but when Spike’s fingers starts playing at the fastening of his pants, he takes hold of them and stills them.

“No time for that now,” he says, and gasps lightly when Spike’s teeth scratch his jaw. “I need to pack so we can be out of here at sunset.”

Spike’s mouth doesn’t leave Connor’s skin, now trailing a contorted path up his cheek. “OK,” he breathes, though he has no intention to stop.

He tries to free his hands but Connor shifts his hold on them, intertwining their fingers and pulling their hands away from their bodies. “I’ll drop stuff at my parents’,” he continues, his voice shaking a little bit, “and take just what I need to LA.”

“OK,” Spike says again, then laps at the almost faded scar on Connor’s cheek. In a few days, it’ll be gone. He’ll enjoy that bit of texture until then. Sensitive skin is always fun to play with.

Connor draws a sharp breath but keeps going as though Spike wasn’t rocking into him, their cocks sliding against each other with each pass beneath too many layers of clothing. “I was thinking… I’ll drive my own car and you’ll follow with Sharona. So they’ll think she’s yours and I won’t have to explain that.”

“O—” Spike freezes and pulls away, frowning. “Wait, what?”

Connor gives him a slightly goofy grin and squeezes his fingers. “Also, what am I supposed to call you?”

It’s still not making one bit of sense – or rather, Spike is afraid to let it make sense. “What?” he says again, feeling a bit slow, a bit dumb, but mostly confused.

If Connor notices his puzzlement, he doesn’t show it, and keeps on as though Spike hadn’t said anything. “It’ll be awkward enough to bring home a boyfriend, it’s not going to help if I introduce you as Spike.” He frowns a little then, and tilts his head as he considers Spike. “Where did you get that name anyway?”

 _That_ , Spike doesn’t care to share quite yet. He’s sure it’ll come up eventually; Angel will probably try to use it to scare Connor away. But right now, there’s something else that needs an explanation. Or rather, a confirmation. “You’re going to introduce me to your parents?” he asks, and can’t quite keep a bit of awe from his words.

“Well, yeah.” Connor shrugs like it’s the most evident thing in the world. “Not sure how they’ll react, but I doubt it’ll be as bad as the way my dad reacted.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. 

He finally lets go of Spike’s hands and slips away. Spike turns in time to watch him slide a suitcase out from beneath his bed. He lays it out at the foot of the bed and opens it.

“Either you’ll be invited to dinner,” he says absently, “or asked to leave their house. You know, Catholics, mortal sin and all that.” He pauses in front of the dresser, the first drawer opened wide. “Wait. Was sodomy a mortal sin? I can’t remember.”

Spike can only stare as Connor shrugs again and proceeds to transfer his clothes to the suitcase, refolding as he goes so everything is neat and lined up. 

If he wasn’t so shocked still, Spike would point out that they haven’t actually progressed to anything that could be labeled as sodomy, so his pretty soul should still be safe – not that Spike didn’t have plans for the afternoon. Packing wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. Taking things slow is all good and fine, but he’d be lying if he pretended he’s not dying to bury himself inside Connor’s heat.

All of that, though, all of his lust and impatience and fantasies fade out in front of this strange fact: Connor called him his boyfriend and is going to introduce him to his folks. It’s as strange as it is unexpected. Spike is not too sure what it means – or rather, he’s afraid to read too much into it. After all, just a few days ago Connor claimed they weren’t his parents – until Spike convinced him otherwise.

“So, what can I call you?” Connor asks when he’s halfway done with the dresser. He turns back to Spike. “How about…” 

He hesitates, long enough that Spike considers just giving him the name he wants right away. He holds his tongue, though, and waits to see what Connor would name him.

The word comes out quietly, barely above a whisper. “Steven.”

There’s something in his voice, a slight hitch, like the name is foreign and he’s not sure he’s saying it right. Spike crosses the few steps that separate them and peers into troubled eyes.

“Steven?” he says. “Any reason why?”

One corner of Connor’s lips rises, and the result is not exactly pretty. Spike’s hand comes up to Connor’s face almost before he knows it and he strokes Connor’s cheek with his thumb, trying to draw out a nicer smile.

“It was my name,” Connor says quietly. “Before I got back to my dad.”

The too few words raise more questions than they answer, but Connor’s eyes have dimmed to the dull gray that warns Spike old pain lies ahead. He lets go – for now – and gives Connor his payment for that small confession. 

“William.”

Connor blinks and repeats the name. “William?”

“That’s my name.” Spike clears his throat. “Was. Long time ago.”

“William.” Connor smiles and nods. “OK. I like it.”

Spike likes it too when Connor says it that way, all smooth silk and hot fudge. He’s not about to admit it, though. He’s got a reputation to maintain. That, and Angel would never let him hear the end of it. “And I like Spike,” he says sternly.

Connor’s eyes gleam mischievously. “How about Will?”

Spike pins him with a cold stare until Connor understands he’s not joking and then says coolly, “No.”

After a second or two, Connor nods and returns to his packing. Spike leaves him to it and goes to the farthest window, lighting up a cigarette after he opens it. From the corner of his eye, he watches Connor. He’ll help him in a moment, he tells himself. When he’s done with his fag. When Connor’s mind has shifted to another topic.

Connor is not distracted so easily, though. He finishes another drawer before asking, “Does he call you Will?”

Spike sighs. Of course it had to come back to Angel. Each of their conversation does, it seems. 

“It has happened a few times,” he grudgingly admits.

Connor pushes a little more. “Is that why you don’t want me to call you that?”

“No. It just hasn’t been my name in a long time. Not everything’s about him.”

Wariness fills his words, and Connor looks at him from across the room, his expression vaguely apologetic.

“But you don’t mind me calling you William, do you? Just for today?”

Blowing out a puff of smoke, Spike shakes his head and grins. He’s going to meet Connor’s parents. He really doesn’t care what Connor calls him. The simple fact that he’s not trying to keep Spike in a closet like some dirty secret is enough for him. “I don’t mind, pet. Not one bit.”

*

Holding a box of assorted dorm room junk in front of him, Connor enters his parents’ house and invites Spike in before calling out, “Hello? Anyone home? It’s me.”

His mother walks out of the kitchen, a smile already lighting up her face. “Hi honey.” Her eyes jump to Spike for a second but her smile doesn’t waver. “We didn’t expect you for a few more days.”

He walks to her and presses a kiss to her cheek. “I know, I just found an internship in LA and I had to move fast.” He raises the box in front of him, already walking to the staircase. “I’m just dropping these before I go tonight.” Stopping on the first step, he looks back to find two sets of eyes questioning him. “Oh, this is William,” he says ruefully.

Colleen starts offering her hand to Spike before realizing his hands are as full as Connor. “Hello, William.”

Spike smiles back at her. “Evening, ma’am.”

Barely stifling a fit of laughter, Connor gives Spike an incredulous look. _Ma’am?_ he mouths. Spike rolls his eyes.

His mother chuckles softly. “Please, call me Colleen. Are you boys hungry? We’ve already had dinner but there’s leftovers.”

“Sounds great,” Connor says, and means it. Between the packing and Spike’s talent at distracting him, he hasn’t had dinner. Neither has Spike, actually, though he hasn’t said a word about blood since admitting he forgot to bring any to Stanford. One more reason to go back to LA sooner rather than later. “We’ll just put my stuff in my room first.”

“Your dad went to drop Erin off at Lindsay’s,” she says as he and Spike go upstairs. “He’ll be back soon. I’ll warm up those plates for you.”

Connor leads the way to his bedroom, and drops his box behind the door. Spike follows suit.

“So, this is my room,” Connor says, feeling a little awkward.

“Figured as much, pet.” 

Spike looks around, his eyes stopping here and there. Connor watches him and wonders what he thinks. 

“You play football?” Spike asks when he sees the trophies on the shelves.

Connor frowns. “Not football, soccer.”

An eyebrow raised, Spike glances at him. “Football. That’s what the civilized world calls it.”

“Civilized?” Connor repeats, laughing. “Just because you’re Scottish—”

“Scottish?” Spike sputters, looking insulted. “I’m English!”

Connor grins. He wouldn’t have though it’d be so easy to jerk Spike’s chain. “Close enough.”

Spike seems to realize Connor is teasing him. He snorts and turns to the dresser, observing the framed pictures on top of it. “Savage,” he mutters as he picks up the largest picture, which shows Connor and a few of his friends at their graduation just a year earlier. He sets the frame back down but continues to look at the pictures. The one next to that is a family portrait. Behind it, an older shot depicts a ten-year-old boy and his father playing soccer in their backyard. They look happy. It was a pretty lie. 

“What do they teach you in that school anyway?” Spike asks, coming back to him.

“Lots of stuff I’ll probably never use,” Connor says absently, his eyes still on the pictures. “And a few I will.”

Spike rests a hand on his face, drawing his attention back to him. “Well you already know how to kiss, so good enough for me.”

He starts leaning in. Connor jerks back, glancing nervously at the open door. “Spike!” he hisses. “Not here!”

With a predatory grin, Spike slinks closer, his hand settling possessively at Connor’s waist. “Thought I was William today?” he says quietly, leaning forward again.

“Don’t—”

Connor gives in when Spike’s lips settle on his. Pulling Spike a little closer, he deepens the kiss, the thrill that they might be discovered adding urgency to his touch and—

Someone clears their throat behind them and he pulls back at once as though burned. Blinking furiously, he turns to the door. His father is standing there, his face blank of emotions.

“Oh. Hi D—dad.” The word seems alien suddenly, and Connor feels an unexpected flash of guilt as he stumbles over it.

“Evening, Connor,” Lawrence says coolly. His eyes remain very pointedly on Connor, never straying toward Spike even though they are standing side by side. “Your mom said you were back.”

Connor swallows the lump in his throat and forces a half smile to his lips. “Just passing by. She told you about the internship?”

“She did, yes.” Lawrence’s words are as expressionless as his features. He takes a few steps into the room, his arms crossing over his chest. “Anything else she should have mentioned?”

Connor winces. When he told Spike he might get invited for dinner or kicked out, it didn’t occur to him that both things might happen. “Well I was going to tell you both when you got there. This is William.” His hand blindly searches for Spike’s, and clings to it when he finds it. “My boyfriend.”

Lawrence’s eyes widen ever so slightly. His voice drops to an icy murmur. “Your boyfriend.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Spike offers his free hand for a handshake. “Connor’s told me—”

Lawrence does not so much as glance at him. “I’d like a word in private, son.”

Connor’s hand tightens over Spike’s. He looks at him, surprised to discover that the anger he expected is absent. Instead, Spike looks somewhere between apologetic and wary.

“Mind waiting downstairs?” Connor says softly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Spike glances at Lawrence before nodding. He brushes his lips over Connor’s before walking away. At the door, he stops and looks back, only leaving after Connor gives him a forced smile. Silence falls on the room, as heavy and stifling as Lawrence’s reprobating gaze. Connor turns away, pulls a duffelbag from beneath his bed and starts throwing clothes in it.

“Have you lost your mind?” Lawrence asks after a few seconds. His voice is shaking.

Connor looks back at him. His face is scarlet; it has been a long time since Connor saw his-- _him_ so mad. He shrugs, a tiny smile pushing to his lips, and returns to stuffing his good Sunday shirts in the bag. He’ll need to iron them later but he doesn’t have the patience to be neater right now. “It was more about finding my heart, actually,” he says very quietly.

Lawrence doesn’t seem to hear him. “Is this some kind of college thing?” His voice becomes harsher. “Like, experimenting?” When Connor doesn’t immediately reply, he steps forward and grabs his wrist, stopping him as he pulls a pair of dress pants from his closet. “You had a girlfriend for Pete’s sake!”

Connor pulls free and gives Lawrence a blank look. “I did,” he says calmly. “And I loved her. And now I love him.”

Lawrence grimaces at the word ‘love’. “But you’re not…gay, are you?”

Connor’s hands clench over the pants he’s still holding. He raises his chin defiantly, meeting Lawrence’s eyes without flinching. “What if I am?” he asks, the words coming out very slowly. “Would you love me any less?”

A look of sheer horror passes through Lawrence’s eyes and gives Connor his answer. Shaking his head, he turns back to the bag and shoves the pants inside. He looks around the room, trying to decide what else he ought to take. He might not be back any time soon.

“Think about what you’re doing!” Lawrence’s voice is rising. “God tells us—”

“ _You_ told me all my life to be true to myself,” Connor cuts in. Sliding the strap of the bag on his shoulder, he walks to the dresser, his hand rising to the pictures there. “You taught me to love,” he adds, very quietly. Holtz taught him to hate, Angel to trust, but not until this life did he understand what love truly was. 

Or was it all another lie?

“I can’t believe this!” Lawrence is almost shouting now. “I can’t believe you’d throw away everything—”

Connor’s hand falls back by his side. The frames on the dresser remain unperturbed. “I’ve got to go,” he says, turning cold eyes to the man who was his father. “We need to be in LA tonight.”

He walks past him without a goodbye and leaves his bedroom, his childhood and the pretty lies behind. Gripping the handrail very tight, he goes down the staircase, slow, quiet steps as though he already wasn’t there anymore. He walks over to the kitchen and stops by the entrance, leaning back against the wall as he listens in. The sounds of his mother working around the kitchen are familiar; it’s strange to hear Spike’s voice over them.

“Something like that,” he says, and Connor wonders what they’re talking about.

“But you’ll take care of him, won’t you?” his mother says quietly.

Spike answers at once. “Yes ma’am.”

“And make sure he calls.” She sounds tired. And worried. No doubt she knew how Lawrence would react, even if Connor wasn’t sure.

“Will do,” Spike says as Connor walks in.

She’s just pulling two plates from the microwave oven. It smells good. Connor feels like retching. “We’re going now,” he says as she turns to him. “Sorry. We’ll eat something on the road.”

He keeps his eyes on her so he won’t have to look at Spike. 

“Connor…” Her face seems older, all of a sudden. She leaves the plates on the counter and comes to him. When her arms close around him, Connor forces himself to stand very still even though he feels like he can’t breathe.

“Oh honey…” She rubs his back and Connor tries not to cringe. “Just give him time.”

He brushes his lips to her cheek and pulls away. “Love you—” The word catches in his throat but he pushes it out anyway. “—Mom.”

She smiles at him. “I love you too. And so does your father.”

She means Lawrence. He knows she does. But it’s another face that flashes through Connor’s mind. Angel is waiting in LA.

“I know,” he says. “Bye.”

Only when he steps outside can he breathe again. He walks straight to Sharona, very careful not to look back. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll see a silhouette behind the second floor window. He doesn’t want to see Lawrence, doesn’t want to guess more disapproval falling on him from the height of condescension. He has had quite enough of that already. He had forgotten how much it hurt.

Spike’s hand closes on his shoulder when he reaches the car.

“You all right?” he asks, sounding just as concerned as he did in Angel’s office two nights ago.

“I’m fine,” Connor says flippantly. He half turns to him and raises his hand palm up. “Give me the keys.”

Spike’s hand tightens a little before he lets go, pulling the bag off Connor’s shoulder. “Don’t think so, no,” he says as he opens the passenger door and holds it for Connor. “I’ll drive.”

Connor walks to him and gives him a hard look. “Spike it’s my fucking car, give me the fucking keys.” His voice is shaking as badly as his still outstretched hand. He clenches his fist, ready to strike if Spike continues to act like an idiot. 

Spike strikes first, grabbing his face with both hands and pulling him in for a kiss. His hands closing over Spike’s wrists, Connor tries to pull back but Spike doesn’t let go. He just presses his lips to Connor’s until he calms down. Connor’s eyes close for an instant, and when he opens them again he’s almost surprised to discover he’s not standing in the middle of the highway.

“I’ll drive,” Spike says again, his thumbs stroking Connor’s cheeks. “Now get in. We’re going home.”

His mind blank, Connor nods faintly and gets into the car. Spike closes the door on him. Moments later, the car rumbles to life and pulls away. Connor can’t stop himself from glancing back. The house is dark; no one is watching him leave. After a little while, Spike reaches out to him, his gaze never leaving the road even as he finds Connor’s hand. For the longest time, Connor just watches their linked fingers. They’re halfway to Los Angeles before it occurs to him to squeeze back.

*

For the hundredth time this evening, Angel abandons on his desk the contract he’s been trying to read and walks to the open door of his office. He stands there, hands in his pockets, and surveys the lobby. From the corner of his eye he can see Harmony shaking her head. When he doesn’t dignify her with a look, she even lets out a little sigh. He’d glare at her, then, but finally - _finally!_ \- Connor steps out of the elevator, closely followed by Spike. 

Angel meets them in the middle of the lobby. He wants to say ‘hi’, or ‘how was the drive?’ or ‘how did those tests go?’ Instead, what comes out is, “I was worried.”

Connor gives him a blank look while Spike snickers and raises a dramatic hand to his own chest. “Aww I knew all these times you were decking me you were secretly saying you cared. I should have brought flowers.”

“Idiot,” Angel mutters, glaring.

“Wanker,” Spike replies without missing a beat. “So where are our new digs?”

Angel leads the way back to the elevator and takes them to the apartment. As he shows them around, Spike gives the expected color commentary but Connor doesn’t say a word. He hasn’t said anything since he arrived, Angel realizes, and his slight worry that Connor doesn’t like the apartment changes into something deeper. Connor’s scent is like tangled threads, too many emotions for Angel to even begin to unravel his mood.

“The video game thing is all set up,” he says, gesturing to the television. “I didn’t know what kind of games you’d like so I went with the best sellers.”

He makes the last words sound like a question, hoping to get a reaction from Connor. He gets a word.

“Cool.”

Angel can’t help being disappointed that his efforts don’t warrant more enthusiasm. Maybe Connor is tired. Maybe his tests didn’t go all that well. Maybe…

“Are you hungry? The kitchen’s that way. There’s food.”

Spike smacks his lips together. “Ravenous is more like it. How ‘bout you, pet?”

Connor nods and follows Spike to the kitchen. Hands deeps in his pockets, Angel frowns at them before following. Something’s going on, but what? He could almost think they’ve had an argument, but as he watches them explore the kitchen, finding bowls, mugs, utensils, they seem comfortable enough with each other. Spike pops a mug filled with blood in the microwave while Connor helps himself to a bowl of cereal and milk. He sits at the island and starts eating, head low, his bangs hiding his eyes.

Angel shifts his feet then steps forward, picking up the box of cereal and fiddling with it, absently reading the nutrition label. “So you like those,” he says, feeling absolutely out of place. “Good. Is 2% milk OK?”

He stops himself before adding that, like for the games, he didn’t know what Connor likes. No need to twist that knife even more.

Without looking up, Connor shrugs. “Sure.”

Behind Connor, Spike rolls his eyes at Angel then drains his mug. He sets it on the counter with a light clank. “I’ll go put our stuff in the bedroom, then. Give you two time to catch up.”

Taken aback, Angel looks at him questioningly. Spike gives him a pointed look, gesturing at Connor from behind the boy. Angel’s confusion only leaps tenfold. What is Spike on about, now? He looks back at Connor, and catches him frowning at his cereals as though they just insulted him.

“Is something wrong?” Angel asks cautiously as he sits on a stool across Connor.

Connor looks up. His forced smile is more of a grimace than anything remotely pleasant, but he does utter more than one word this time. “Everything’s fine. This place looks great. Thanks.”

He’s lying. Angel is sure he’s lying. He just doesn’t know if he should call Connor on it. If he wanted to tell him what is wrong, he would – wouldn’t he?

“If you need _anything_ ,” Angel tries, “if there’s anything that bothers you, you just need to let me know.”

For a second, Connor meets his eyes. Angel leans forward as though to listen better, but the revelation he expected doesn’t come. Connor’s attention returns to his food. “I know,” he mumbles, and eats another spoonful.

The cereal crunch under his teeth; they crackle in the bowl. The small sounds don’t even begin to fill the silence. Desperate to give himself a reason to be there, Angel stands and walks around the island, rolling back his sleeves as he goes. He picks up Spike's dirty mug and rinses it in the sink, leaving it to dry on the rack. Maybe he should have had a dishwasher installed, he thinks suddenly. Spike is a slob, and Connor will probably get tired pretty quick of doing the dishes. Making a mental note of it, he returns to the island and sits back down. The silence returns, thicker than ever.

“I found you that internship,” Angel says after a moment. “At an architect firm just a block away. You start Monday so that gives you a couple days to relax.”

Connor nods again. “All right.” From the tone of his voice, Angel can’t tell if he’s even remotely interested by the news.

Having run out of things to say, and still not sure if he ought to press more intrusive questions on Connor, Angel stands again. “I guess I’ll go, now,” he says slowly. “Unless there was anything—”

“OK,” Connor cuts in without looking at him. “Good night.”

Angel knows a dismissal when he hears one. Defeated, he turns away and walks back to the entrance. Spike stands on his path, arms crossed and still glaring. “And you call _me_ an idiot,” he mutters, and the hell if Angel knows what that’s supposed to mean.

*

When he gets out of bed in the middle of the morning, Spike is in a particularly foul mood. He has been extraordinarily patient so far – and not just about the sex. Patience is not his strong suit. Something’s gotta break, and he’s not the one with cracks ready to shatter under the right pressure. 

He slides into jeans though he leaves them unbuttoned, and, yawning widely, he follows the sounds of frantic clicking and obnoxiously repetitive music. Connor is on the sofa, playing video games. His position hasn’t changed all that much since Spike went to bed sometime between four and five.

Spike considers his approach for a moment before deciding that subtlety is overrated. Climbing on the sofa next to Connor, he wraps both arms and legs around him. Connor doesn’t react; he doesn’t even look at Spike, his eyes fixed on the jumping character on the screen.

“Thought you were coming to bed,” Spike says as he gets close enough to nibble on Connor’s ear.

Without letting go of the game controller, Connor leans away, freeing his ear if not the rest of him. “Sorry,” he mutters, sounding anything but. “Got distracted.”

Trying another angle of attack, Spike sneaks his hands beneath Connor’s shirt, finding soft, warm skin to stroke. Connor squirms but can’t escape, not without dropping the controller.

“Want to talk about it, then?” Spike asks.

“Talk about what?” Connor says through clenched teeth.

“Why you were too tired last night, then too distracted, and now too busy.”

The look Connor gives him them could rival Angel’s nastiest. “You don’t expect us to fuck every waking hour, do you?”

“Doing it once would be nice.” Recognizing that he’s not going to entice Connor, Spike stops the petting, though he doesn’t let go. Connor is going to have to learn that it takes a lot more than a mean look and a few cold words to get rid of him. “I thought you wanted to. You _said_ —”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

Spike sighs. Really, he can’t blame this on anyone but himself. It’s not like he didn’t know the boy was broken when he walked into this.

Resting his chin on Connor’s shoulder, he says, “You care that much about what he thinks?”

“Who?” Connor asks deadpan.

Spike is in no mood for games. “Your mum’s husband.”

Connor’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t reply. Spike waits for a few minutes, but he knows a lost cause when he sees one. If this were Angel, he’d resort to blows right about now – but it’s not, and he won’t. Instead, he stands and returns to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. When he comes back to the living room, Connor hasn’t moved an inch.

“I’ll leave you to your brooding, then,” he says, exasperated. “Never could stand _him_ doing it, it figures I’d fall for someone who’s just as good at it.”

As Spike thought, the mention of Angel doesn’t go unnoticed. Connor pauses the game and looks at him, frowning. “You’re going to him,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You said you wouldn’t tell him—”

“No, pet. _You_ told me not to tell him. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. And for the record, I’m not going to see him. I’m going to find someone to beat up. Blue’s usually amenable but he’ll do in a pinch if she’s busy.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Connor believes him or not and leaves the apartment. He figured by now they’d be christening every room and surface available. Sometimes, he wishes he weren’t on such a strict diet, although he could still make an exception for the bloody idiot who doesn’t even know how lucky he was to be entrusted with Connor. Spike does know how lucky _he_ is; he also know he's not getting any more lucky until this is fixed. And if Connor won't talk to him...

He finds Illyria easily enough, but changes his mind as he sees her. She seems to be in one of her less pleasant moods, and he’s not that much of a glutton for punishment. He goes instead to Angel’s office. The door is closed and Harmony tries to stop him; she’s not very convincing. Angel is behind his desk when Spike walks in. He gives him an annoyed look but continues right on with his phone conversation in whatever demon language he is speaking – or it might just be German. Spike doesn’t care one way or the other; he just hopes the call ends before his patience runs out and he ends it himself.

To pass time, Spike helps himself to a glass of scotch. A glance at Angel reveals a deeper frown; Spike fills a second glass and brings it to him. Angel picks it up and takes a sip as he listens, but he doesn’t even offer Spike a nod of appreciation. Spike should have just stayed in bed, he thinks as he drains his drink.

A few minutes later, Angel finally concludes his call. Before he can do more than glare, Spike says, “Go talk to him.”

Angel freezes, the glass halfway to his lips, and sets it down on the desk. “About what?” he asks, his voice making it clear that Spike had better hope Angel likes his answer.

“About his wanker of a father,” Spike snaps, then realizes he needs to be clearer than that. “Not you. The other one. The one who thinks Connor will burn in hell for taking a liking to someone who has a dick.”

Angel grips the edge of the desk as he stands. “You met his parents,” he says darkly, probably on the same tone he’d use to accuse Spike of stealing his boy’s virginity.

Spike resists the easy jab. He deserves a bloody medal, at the very least. “His mum’s fine,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “But his father—”

“ _I_ am his father.”

Spike nods. “My point exactly. So go to him already so he’ll stop moping and I can shag him right and proper in our new bed.”

Angel blinks, then stares at him for long seconds.

“What?” Spike says, unnerved by that blank look. 

Shaking his head, Angel sighs softly. “I’m trying to decide whether I should kiss you or punch you. Usually it’s easier to figure out.”

Spike snorts. “Wanker.”

*

When Angel walks in not half an hour after Spike left, Connor can’t help but tense. Of course Spike went and got the cavalry; Connor isn’t even surprised about it. Annoyed, but not surprised. He’s been acting like a jerk with Spike, he knows that even if he couldn’t do a thing to stop himself. He’s not sure it’s worth it _not_ to push him away. He always ends up hurting the ones he loves – and they always hurt him back.

Watching Angel from the corner of his eye, he braces himself for the consoling platitudes he is sure are coming. But Angel doesn’t say a word, just observes the screen for a little while, then sits on the sofa next to Connor. Far enough not to crowd him, still close enough that Connor can feel his presence even though he’s perfectly still.

“So you like this game, then?” he asks after a moment.

Connor had grown used to the comfortable silence and the innocuous words draw an actual answer out of him.

“It’s pretty cool. I’d never played it or even heard of it.”

Even without looking at him, even if Angel doesn’t move, Connor can tell he’s relaxing a little. His voice seems lighter, suddenly, almost pleased. “Lorne said it’s the latest thing. It’s not even for sale yet.”

Not pleased, Connor realizes, glancing at him. Proud. About a video game. Angel is just _weird_ sometimes, he decides, and returns his full attention to the screen. This level has been giving him trouble for a couple of hours, and it doesn’t help that he now has an audience. His focus drifts after only a few moments, and he messes up again, losing his last life. With a sigh, he watches the game restart.

“He doesn’t remember me,” he says absently, hitting the control buttons even though it’s useless at this point.

“Who?” Angel asks after a beat.

Connor gives him an impatient look. “Lorne. Neither does Gunn. But you do, and Wesley, and Illyria. Why you three and not other people? Why didn’t it just go back to the way it was?”

 _Why do the Reillys still remember me_ is what he wants to ask, but that’s too close to the subject he doesn’t want to talk about.

Angel nods slowly as though he had heard the question anyway. “Vail's spell wasn't completely broken. The memories only returned to the people who were at his place. Just the two of them, and you.”

Vail. Connor remembers him. So he's the one responsible. Something to think about later, though. For now...

“And you,” Connor starts, but he cuts himself at once. He never stopped to think about it before, but it’s suddenly evident. As he observes Angel, he’s not sure whether to be upset or glad. Not sure whether to accuse or give thanks. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No,” Angel says blankly. “I had to give you up. I wasn’t giving up my memories, too.”

Connor offers him a tiny nod and an even smaller smile before returning his eyes to the television. The game is ready for him to restart the same cursed level once more. Angel falls silent again, as though realizing the game requires Connor’s full attention. After a moment, he moves, slowly enough that Connor barely notices until tentative fingers card through his hair. After an initial jerk of surprise, he keeps still. He doesn’t mind, at least not too much. Tactile memories insist on reminding him he doesn’t mind because he’s used to it – Colleen did this all the time when they watched TV together until he grew up and decided he was too cool to be petted like this. 

He’s still too cool, and much too old – but truth is, he’s missed it.

He manages to get halfway through the level before he dies a sudden death when Angel startles him enough that he makes a stupid mistake.

“I’m sorry about your… dad,” he says very quietly. “Want to talk about it?”

Dropping the controller in disgust, Connor pulls away from Angel’s annoying petting and glares at him. If Spike were there, he’d get more than a nasty look. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Angel’s eyes widen in surprise. “I know you’ve got to be angry,” he says cautiously, “but humans are more fragile than you’d expect and even without trying to hurt him you might—”

It takes Connor a few moments to understand Angel’s mistake. He can’t blame him; it wouldn’t be the first time Connor tried to kill his father. Pushing himself off the sofa, he stands and stalks over to the kitchen, throwing over his shoulder, “Not Lawrence. Spike. He said he wasn’t going to see you.” As he helps himself to a glass of water, he mutters under his breath, “And he wasn’t supposed to tell. Damn him!”

He stays in the kitchen for a few minutes, not hungry or thirsty anymore but sort of hoping Angel will get tired of waiting and leave. He soon has to admit it won’t be that easy, though, and he returns to the living room, arms crossed and frowning. Angel is sitting on the edge of the sofa, as though he had been about to get up. Connor walks in front of him, picks up the remote and sits down again, starting yet again the same level.

“So…you don’t want to talk about it, then?” Angel asks before Connor has even passed the first obstacle.

Connor sighs. It would be too much to expect a “No” to be enough. “I don’t care what he thinks,” he says, grumbling. “He doesn’t know me. Not anymore. I don’t even know why I took Spike there. It was stupid.”

 _He_ was stupid. He had this ridiculous idea that if they accepted Spike, accepted that their son had a boyfriend, it would be as good as them accepting the rest of him, too – the parts they don’t know about, the parts he can never explain to them, or to anyone who has a heartbeat for that matter. That was too much to expect, too.

Seconds pass before Angel asks, practically whispering now: “Were they good to you?” He clears his throat. “When you were growing up, I mean. You were happy. Weren’t you?”

Connor glances at him, and his first reply, which was that he wasn’t happy because it didn’t happen, dies on his lips. There’s such hope on Angel’s features. Such fear. Such pain…

“Yeah, I was,” he says, turning back to the screen. He shifts a little on the sofa. If Angel’s hand returned to his hair now, he wouldn’t protest too much. “They’re good people,” he adds, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Even him.” He snorts, bitterness surging through him. “He was great right to the moment he got ready to throw me out.”

His thumb slips. The screen flashes once more to ‘Try Again?’. Closing his eyes, he leans back into the sofa. At least this time he had a place to go to, people who still loved him.

“Connor… I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s not your fault he can’t—”

Angel’s hand tentatively settles on his shoulder. “No, not about him. I’m sorry about me. About not being a better father. I tried my best but—”

Connor shakes his head, and Angel’s hand falls away. He gives him a tired look. “Angel—”

“It wasn’t enough. I promised your mother I’d keep you safe, and I couldn’t even hold on to you for more than a few weeks. Can you ever for—

“Dad!” Connor sits up, annoyed. “If you say forgive,” he snaps, “I’m going to put my fist in your face and go find Spike.” After a second, he adds, vindictive, “And put my fist in his face too.”

He feels a twinge of guilt at the crestfallen look on Angel’s face, but it doesn’t last, not when his father says, “Of course. I shouldn’t expect you to, and even less ask for—”

“Oh for crying—” Clenching his teeth, he glowers at Angel. “Did you send me to Quor-toth?”

Angel frowns. “I didn’t _send_ you there,” he says slowly, “but I should have stopped—”

“Did you decide I’d be raised by—” Connor’s voice starts shaking. Part of him still wants to call Holtz ‘father’, still loves him as such, but he knows now, with eighteen more years of experience giving him the distance he needs, that to Holtz he was little more than a sharp instrument to point at Angel’s heart. Had they lived, Holtz would not have raised his children as he raised Steven. “—by a man who was consumed by hate?”

“I didn’t,” Angel says again, his eyes sharpening, “but I let him—”

“Did you put me in a box under the sea?” he continues, speaking faster now, letting his guilt out like he would lance a festering wound. He leans toward Angel as though it’ll force him to _hear_. “Did you make me sleep with _her_ and father a hell god? Did you make me—”

“All I did,” Angel interrupts him softly, “is try to erase all this. Give you a life that wasn’t all about blood and death. And I couldn’t even do that right.”

“But you _did_.” Connor doesn’t know how to show Angel he means what he says. He has never meant anything more. “Don’t you see I wouldn’t be here – I wouldn’t be _alive_ if you hadn’t given me to the Reillys?”

*

The words are damn near perfect.

It’s what Angel has wanted to hear ever since Connor showed up at Wolfram & Hart. What he _needed_ to hear. 

Twice he has given up his son for another man to raise. Twice he has made that unbearable choice because the alternative was death. With just a few words, Connor has given him absolution for at least one of those unforgivable faults. 

It could be perfect - _too_ perfect – if not for the bloodied blade Angel can practically feel in the palm of his hand. Connor may have forgiven him, even if he doesn’t want to use the word, but Angel is not as lenient with himself.

To chase away the feel of that blade, like the phantom pain of an amputated limb, Angel reaches out again, and like a few minutes ago he runs his fingers through Connor’s hair. 

Baby Connor’s hair was too fine to do this, and all Angel could do, then, was cradle him in his hands, lay him to rest on his shoulder, and dream of birthday cakes, big boy bikes, PeeWee hockey games and prom night tuxedos. When, at the gentlest, most unconscious pressure, Connor closes his eyes and leans sideways, resting his head against Angel’s shoulder, there are no dreams of the future left in Angel’s mind. He’ll take every moment as it is offered, and be grateful that he has even that.

“You’re alive,” he says, choking a little on the words. “But are you happy?”

“I am.” Connor sighs. “Just… pissed off, I guess. But I’ll get over it.”

He shrugs, and for a moment Angel is scared he’ll pull away. He settles down again, however, shifting a little on the sofa so he’s closer to Angel, his body in a more comfortable position. Angel keeps caressing his hair, slowly, to the rhythm of his son’s heart, so close now he could almost believe it’s his own.

He can’t remember ever being this close to Connor, not even when being under Jasmine’s hold had brought them to a peaceful if illusory understanding. He is scared to break the moment, but he has never had a better chance to ask a request that has burned his lips and heart for too long already. 

“I’d like you to tell me, some time,” he murmurs. “About your childhood.”

He can feel the minute tension in Connor’s body but doesn’t stop his mindless stroking. After a moment, Connor relaxes again and exhales slowly. “Which one?” he asks.

“Either one. Both. Anything you want to tell me. Good or bad.”

He would like to hear about the good times on Quor-toth, if there were any, and be reassured that it wasn’t eighteen years of complete and unending nightmare. He would like to hear about the bad times with the Reillys, and know that even the most perfect family can’t protect its children from everything. He would like to know about his son’s first kill, and his first kiss. What he wanted to become when he grew up, astronaut or fireman. What he thought he would do after killing Angelus. Angel will take anything, any small memory, any crumb Connor will offer him. If he only will.

Long seconds pass before Connor finally says, “OK. But… not now.”

Angel closes his eyes and smiles. “Whenever you’re ready.” The smile doesn’t last, though, it can’t, not when he has missed so much. Connor could tell him about every day of his life with complete details and Angel still would have missed too much. “I’d have been a good father, you know,” he says, the words quiet again as though saying them too loud would make them easier to deny or ridicule. “If I had had more time to prove it, I’d have—”

“You _are_ a good dad,” Connor interrupts him, shaking his head a little. He sits up, pulling away from Angel, and when Angel opens his eyes he is greeted by a lopsided smile. “At least you are when you’re not beating up my boyfriend.”

Angel waits for the familiar pang of anger – anger at Spike, not Connor, never again – but all he feels is resignation. He twists his index finger in a lock of hair and tugs gently. “So he’s your boyfriend, now?”

Connor’s smile turns sheepish. “Well, yeah.”

Sighing, Angel drops his hand from the back of Connor’s head and stands. “I have to go back and pretend to be evil for a while. I’ll be back later tonight. Wes wants to talk to us.”

A small, fleeting frown passes over Connor’s brow. “If you see Spike,” he says, “could you—”

“Tell him you want to kill him and he should stay away?”

Connor gives him an eyeroll. Angel sighs again, and nods. Boyfriend. Has Spike ever been that much to anyone? “I’ll send him up.”

He starts toward the door, but has to turn back when Connor’s voice rises one last time. “Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

Angel leaves the apartment smiling. He’s getting better at this. They both are.

He’s still grinning when he enters his office. Spike is there, sitting at the conference table, his shoes on the expensive wood. He has the television’s remote in hand and is jumping from channel to channel, though he shuts it off and swings his legs off the table when Angel comes in. Pushing the door shut behind him, Angel strides to him and hauls him up, hands tight on the front of his shirt. Spike’s eyes widen in alarm and he starts protesting, starts fighting back – until Angel’s lips crash on his, that is. 

He freezes at once, his eyes growing wide before snapping shut. Angel takes advantage of his shock to thrust his tongue into Spike’s mouth. It takes Spike less than a second to realize Angel’s tongue is bleeding. He lets out a quiet little hum and begins to caress the cut with the tip of his tongue, his arms weaving around Angel and drawing him closer. Angel’s right hand moves up, tangling in the hair at the back of Spike’s head; the left cups his ass and pushes him tighter still. They kiss until the nick in Angel’s tongue has closed again, but even when their mouths part, they remain as they are for a few more seconds. 

Spike blinks several times, his gaze slowly focusing on Angel, and licks his lips. “That was… unexpected.”

There’s a question behind his words, but Angel pretends not to hear it. His fingers tighten just a little on his hair before he lets go and steps back. “He’s waiting for you.”

Spike’s eyes narrow, as does his smile. “So you talked to him, then? About his dads?”

The plural is not a slip of the tongue. Angel mock-glares at him, mostly so he won’t be tempted to kiss him again. “Stop trying to prove you’re smarter than I think, boy, and go. Before I change my mind.”

Minutes later, when a client walks in for an appointment, Angel is, outwardly, cool and composed; professional. His mind, though, is something else entirely, and he can’t help but wonder what his boys are doing.

*

Spike isn’t sure what to expect when he enters the apartment. Angel’s “He’s waiting for you” – and his unexpected kiss, but Spike isn’t thinking about that – could mean many things. Connor’s moods are like his eyes, as changing as quicksilver.

The first thing he notices is the silence. It’s certainly a better sign than if the video game music was still playing. His gaze sweeps the open floor of the apartment, finding no trace of Connor. The bedroom door is open, and as Spike gets closer to it he can hear a fast heartbeat waiting for him – and can smell lust just pouring out of the room.

He stops on the threshold, his eyes widening as a jolt of pure need flashes through him. Connor is naked, lying back against a pillow in the center of the bed. A rosy flush colors his face and chest. His fisted hand is slowly moving over his hard cock. When Spike’s appreciative gaze meets his, he says very quickly, as though to get it over with, “I’m sorry.”

Spike nods. Stepping in, he gets rid of his shoes and starts working on his shirt’s buttons. His eyes never leave Connor, drifting from his still moving hand to his mouth, bottom lip caught between his teeth, then his eyes. The sky, behind the necrotempered window, isn’t anywhere as bright.

“How sorry are you?” he asks, stopping at the foot of the bed. He shrugs out of his shirt, leaving it to fall behind him. “When I was sorry, I gave you a car. What are you gonna give me?”

He already knows the answer – Connor is about as subtle as his father – but Spike wants to hear him say it.

“Myself?” Connor says, his voice uneven. His fist stops moving, remains curled at the base of his cock.

Spike drops his hands to the fastenings of his jeans. Connor blinks, his eyes fixed on Spike’s fingers as he twists the buttons loose as slowly as he can manage, dragging things out. He pauses on the last button, causing Connor to groan in frustration. “And what should I do with you?”

Connor looks at him impatiently, his blushing darkening a little as he says with just a sliver of hesitation, “Fuck me.”

By the time Spike is done, he’s determined that Connor won’t ever hesitate or feel embarrassed again. Shoving his jeans down his legs, he kicks them off and climbs onto the bed. On all fours, he moves over Connor, the tip of his hardening cock leaving a wet trail on the boy’s leg and stomach. He only stops when they are practically nose to nose. 

“Best offer I’ve had in a long time,” he says, smirking. “Any strings attached to it? Anything I _shouldn’t_ do?”

Connor licks his lips before he answers breathily, “No.”

Chuckling very low, Spike slips into game face. “You sure about that, pet?”

Connor doesn’t even flinch. “I’m sure you won’t do anything that will get you staked.”

Spike laughs. “So true.” Very slowly, he lowers his body to Connor’s, until his cock lies tight between them – and until his mouth is on Connor’s throat. As expected, Connor jerks, but short of pushing Spike off him, he can’t do much more than tremble as Spike presses a kiss at the hollow of his throat. The tiniest thread of fear is rising in his scent, mixing with heady lust. 

Vowing to himself that, sooner or later, he’ll get rid of that fear, Spike shifts back to his human features and slides down, trailing his lips over Connor’s collarbone, then down his chest, pausing just briefly to tug a nipple between two careful teeth. Connor gasps, releasing the breath he has been holding since Spike touched his throat, and relaxes ever so slightly. Spike continues his journey downward, caressing Connor’s stomach with lips and tongue, pulling a muffled, nervous giggle from him when he circles his bellybutton with the tip of his tongue before briefly dipping in. Connor isn’t laughing anymore when Spike reaches his cock.

At the first touch of Spike’s mouth on the very tip, Connor draws a sharp breath. His body is tense suddenly, and Spike can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever done this for him, in this life or the previous one. He chases the thought away. It doesn’t really matter.

He pulls Connor’s hand away from the base of his cock, replacing it with his own. Connor’s fingers slip and entwine with his, tightening when Spike’s mouth closes over the head of his cock. Spike slides down, adding just a bit of suction as he moves back up; Connor’s moan is pure music.

For a few seconds, Spike is determined to make this last, take Connor to the edge of pleasure and pull him back a few times before taking him, all of him, and making him fly. That resolution crumbles when Connor’s free hand digs under the pillows and pulls out a brand new tube of lube that he slides down the bed to rest within Spike’s reach. The invitation is all too clear. It seems that Spike isn’t the only one whose patience is wearing thin. 

Chuckling, Spike draws back and licks Connor’s cock from root to tip before saying, “You didn’t tell me you were a Boy Scout, pet. Always ready.”

“I—” 

Connor grunts and his hips arch up at the barest hint of teeth scrapping beneath the crown. Angel always reacts the exact same—

Spike gives himself a mental shake and focuses on the task at hand, licking the precome that shines along the slit.

“It was in the drawer. I thought you brought it,” Connor finishes, a hitch in his voice.

Spike looks up and finds the same frown on Connor’s brow that he knows pulls at his own. If neither of them got the lube…

Damn bastard. What game is he playing now?

With a quiet growl, Spike lifts his mouth from Connor and, kneeling on the bed, he grabs the lube. The cap slips from his fingers and to the floor when he opens it. Spike doesn’t even notice. 

“Legs up, pet.”

Connor blinks, and after a beat he does as he is told, clutching his knees as he draws them back. He’s trembling, and not all of it is from need and want. Spike’s eyes stay on his face as he applies a generous amount of lube to his fingers and brushes the tip of his index to Connor’s tight hole. The boy flinches.

“Won’t work if you don’t relax, luv.”

Connor lets out a short, shaky bark of laughter. “Easy for you to say.”

Spike bites back the offer to switch things around; they’ll do that, but not now. It’s not that he cares which of them is on top, really. It’s more about keeping it to the two of them. He can still taste Angel’s blood on the back of his tongue, right along with Connor’s precome. His mind is already flashing to the bloody wanker way too much as it is. Having Connor inside him would not help on that front.

Besides, he can be very convincing when he really wants to.

Leaving his fingers to tease at Connor’s opening, he lowers his mouth again to Connor’s softening cock. It jumps back to life at the touch, and Connor hums quietly. Spike’s tongue circles the crown like his finger circles lower. When he draws the tip into his mouth, he presses harder – and Connor’s body finally lets him in. 

His mouth descends on that lovely cock, now fully hard again, the flesh taut and warm as the tight ring of his lips slips lower, then up again. At the same time, his finger presses further in, slicking, teasing, caressing – opening. A second finger joins the first. At the third, Connor starts breathing very hard and pleading – not with words, but with his hands, pulling his legs higher still, then dropping one to press at the back of Spike’s head. 

Another time, Spike promises himself, he’ll tease the boy until he gets him to beg properly. Now, though…

He pulls up, letting go of Connor’s cock with a wet plop. He pulls out, too, spreading his fingers as they withdraw. Before Connor has time to protest with more than a blink, Spike has slicked his cock and positioned himself. Connor’s eyes shut tight and he holds his breath. Leaning forward and supporting his weight on his free hand, Spike brushes his lips against Connor’s mouth. 

“Look at me,” he whispers.

Connor’s eyes flutter open and lock with Spike’s. “In,” he says, so low Spike guesses the word as much as he hears it. “Want you.”

Spike flicks his tongue at those sweet lips then presses in, past them – at the same time as his cock presses inside Connor, slowly, gently, when what Spike really wants is _fast_ and _hard_ and _now_.

And then he’s in, all the way in, Connor looking at him in wonder, eyes big and just a little shiny. Spike starts moving, and those big eyes widen yet a little more. Connor is shaking again, but there’s no fear or nervousness left in him. His legs and arms weave around Spike, drawing him closer, reinforcing his slowly increasing pace. Spike was careful not to touch the boy’s prostate with his fingers. When he finds the right angle and his cock brushes against it, Connor gasps, then wails. Spike covers his mouth with his own and does it again.

As he pushes and coaxes Connor toward his orgasm – as he tries to stave off his own a little longer – Spike’s only thought is that he just might burn into flames again. Connor feels that hot around his cock, around his body, slick, burning flesh searing him down to his very soul, and beyond. 

When Connor’s cock starts pulsing in Spike’s fisted hand, when his nails dig into Spike’s shoulder, when he breathes his name like a prayer, Spike lets go and spills himself inside his boy – spills his heart in the shell of his ear, words no louder than a murmur that cause Connor’s arms to tighten around him.

“Love you.”

The best part, though, is when Connor says the words back.

*

It’s the middle of the afternoon and Connor is sitting in bed, polishing off the last of the ice cream he found in the freezer – tasty straight from the carton, but amazing when licked off Spike’s lips. The thought pops up into his mind without warning, like it has for three days already, surfacing at the oddest moments. Before he knows it, he’s asking the question, and nevermind that this ground is mined. 

“Who else did you call pet?”

Spike’s thumb, which was beating to the rhythm of Connor’s heart against his hip, stills suddenly, but Spike doesn’t raise his head from where he laid it on Connor’s chest. Connor scrapes the spoon again the bottom of the carton, drawing up the very last of the ice cream. He eats it slowly, giving Spike time to answer, but when no reply is forthcoming he pokes Spike’s shoulder with the spoon.

“Come on,” he says, half cajoling, half exasperated. “You can tell me. And don’t give me that crap about not wanting to know. I’m asking.”

Spike sighs. The small huff raises goosebumps on Connor’s skin. “Mostly, he meant Dru,” he says, the reluctance all too clear in his voice.

Connor drops the spoon in the empty carton and reaches over to put that on the night table. His hands are cold, but there are no protests when he runs them down Spike’s back.

“Dru?” he repeats, prodding gently.

Another sigh. “Drusilla. She’s the vampire who sired me.”

Connor considers Spike’s choice of words for a moment – and the tone in which those words were offered. He has heard that same tone before. The first time, Spike was talking about a soul and a Slayer; the second, about improbable declarations and laughter. He knows what that tone means: Spike was hurt where the pain lasts much longer than flesh wounds. 

He keeps running his hands over Spike’s back, tracing arcane designs that only he can see in his mind. He doesn’t ask about Dru. Spike will share, some day, maybe, if he wants to. There’s more to talk about, though.

“I don’t know why but I thought he had,” he says quietly. “Sired you, I mean.”

Neither of them asks who ‘he’ is anymore. That game grew old long ago.

“Not him, no.” Spike’s thumb starts beating again, now accompanied by the rest of his fingers, as though Connor’s skin were a drum, or a piano, and he were trying to pull more notes from him, like he did earlier. “Though he sired Dru,” he adds after a moment, “so you weren’t far off.”

“So you’re…” Connor scrunches his nose at the thought, and his nails dig a little deeper before he realizes what he’s doing. “His grand-son? Oh God, that sounds _bad_.”

Spike snickers quietly and presses his lips over Connor’s heart. “It really does, pet.” Another kiss, a little higher, close to Connor’s collarbone. “Grand-Childe, I suppose,” he says, the words caressing Connor’s skin, “though he never called me that. For all intents and purposes, Angelus was my Sire.”

Connor can’t help but notice the tense Spike is using. He frowns, his right hand sliding up to rest against Spike’s neck. “Was?” he repeats, making the word a question. The scars are almost faded, but Connor can still feel them beneath his fingers, like he did, earlier, beneath his lips. Not Angel’s, then, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. He couldn’t tell if Spike is shrugging at his words, or shivering from his touch.

“Still is, I suppose,” he murmurs, his lips now very close to Connor’s throat.

Without thinking, Connor drops his chin, blocking Spike’s path to his neck. “So you’re basically his son,” he says, snorting quietly. “And you two are… involved. Damn, it sounds worse and worse by the minute.”

Spike nudges Connor’s chin with his nose, but Connor resists. After a moment, Spike makes an annoyed little noise. “Feel free to stop any time, then.”

But Connor doesn’t stop. He keeps preventing Spike from getting to his throat again; it’s not that he doesn’t trust him, he just doesn’t like to be touched there, never did – at least, not in this life. He keeps running one hand over Spike’s back, and could almost swear Spike is warming up at his contact. And of course, he keeps thinking about all of this mess.

“So you’re his son,” he says again. “And so am I… So we’re like—” He doesn’t know whether to laugh or grimace at where this line of thought led him.

“Pervert,” Spike accuses, and rakes his teeth against Connor’s collarbone. “Although if you want to be technical I guess I’m your nephew. Or great-nephew, counting from your mum. Something like that.”

Connor’s amusement fades in a flash. His hands still on Spike. “She was his Sire, yes,” he whispers. “I had forgotten.”

Although that’s not exactly true. He hadn’t really forgotten. He just tries not to think about it – about her. The guilt comes back every time he does, and he has quite enough of that already. Wanting to change the subject, he returns to an easier topic – if just as disturbing.

“So in a way,” he says, frowning a little, “I’m my father’s brother, too.”

Spike has been trailing his lips down Connor’s chest. He laughs against his belly. The low sound curls around Connor like a hand, tight and warm. “You’ve got one hell of a family tree, luv.”

He flicks his tongue at Connor’s bellybutton. Any lower, now, and he’ll have to push the sheet away. Connor grips the back of his neck, slowing him down as he asks, “Do you call—”

Spike’s tongue is still circling Connor’s bellybutton, the same way he circled somewhere else, earlier. Connor blushes at the memory. His cock twitches and he trips over his own words. “My—my father. Do you call him luv?”

“I’m more fond of moron, in his case,” Spike mutters, then gives a playful bite at Connor’s abs.

“R—right.” The squeak in Connor’s voice is shameful, and he decides to pretend it didn’t happen. “You call him moron in bed. I can totally believe that.”

“Do we _have_ to talk about him now?” Spike’s lips trail against the edge of the sheet, his cheek brushing against Connor’s cock – but Connor refuses to be deterred. He wants to know – he _needs_ to know.

“So what do you call him?” he insists.

Spike sighs again. “Connor…”

“You call him by my name? And I thought I was confused.”

Spike raises his head and looks up at him. He seems… unhappy, and Connor has to push back a pang of guilt. It’s not like he’s asking for details. 

“Not funny,” Spike chides.

Connor shrugs. “Yeah, it kinda is. Because you’re still not answering, and I’d rather joke about you calling him Connor than think you call him pet.”

Spike blinks, then frowns. “Of course I don’t,” he says, as though it were the most evident truth.

He starts turning away again, back toward his all too obvious goal, but another question burns Connor’s tongue – and has burned his mind as long as the first one.

“Does he call you ‘boy’ when you’re in bed?”

Spike mutters a quiet curse as he pulls away. Moving off Connor, he lies onto his back next to him, an arm behind his head. When Connor rolls onto his side toward him, his eyes are closed, his lips pinched tight. Connor lays a hand in the center of his chest, and feels a small tremor beneath his touch.

“He does, doesn’t he?” he whispers, leaning in close to brush his lips against Spike’s jaw. “The way you reacted when he called you that… it was like he flipped a switch.” His hand drifts down until it covers Spike’s half-hard cock. “Did you get hard from it?”

“Pet—” Spike starts warningly, opening his eyes to give Connor a hard look.

Connor ignores the look as well as the warning. “Would you get hard if I called you that too, boy?”

The twitch he expected against the palm of his hand fails to materialize. His disappointment must be apparent, because Spike raises an amused eyebrow at him.

“Mostly, I’d laugh in your face,” Spike says, a spark of laughter ready to break free from his words. “I’m much too old to be your boy.” He moves so fast that Connor doesn’t have the beginning of a chance to stop him, grabbing Connor’s hand, using it as leverage to push Connor onto his back as he lies half on, half off him, his hip against Connor’s cock and his mouth at his throat. “Now be quiet, _boy_.”

Connor shakes. His teeth are clenched, but a muffled moan rises from his throat anyway. He can _feel_ Spike’s smile against his throat, as clearly as he can feel him press down onto his hardening cock.

“Liked that, didn’t you?” Spike says close to his skin.

Connor doesn’t know if he means the word or the kiss. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t like either. “No.” He really didn’t.

 _Really_.

Spike raises his head to look at Connor. He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Don’t lie to me, pet. You’re not too old for a spanking.”

Connor forces a laugh from his lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Once again, Spike moves too fast, too unpredictably. He rolls onto his back, drawing Connor on top of him. Both his hands are on Connor’s ass, kneading gently. He kisses Connor’s chin. “Don’t _want_ to,” he says quietly, “but push me hard enough and I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

Connor gulps. Maybe it’s time to stop the stupid questions. He kisses Spike, and that takes care of that.

*

His hand on the door handle, Angel hesitates. Maybe he should knock. That might help to avoid unpleasant surprises. He has enough trouble not thinking about them that way without having an actual visual stuck in his mind.

Wesley shifts behind him and Angel lets go of the handle. He knocks twice, and after a few seconds the door opens. When Spike appears on the threshold, fire flashes through Angel’s veins and he has to hide a wince. He knows that smug look in his eyes, has seen him like this before, hair tousled, jeans not fully buttoned, shirt hanging open on his bare chest. It’s the scent rising from him that troubles Angel, though. It’s both familiar and not. Angel knows the scent of sex, he knows the scent of his son, but he never wanted to smell both on Spike.

“And the parental visits are already starting,” Spike says with a slight smirk. “Are you going to make a habit of dropping by unannounced?”

Angel pushes past him and tries not to take any more of his scent in. If he’s lucky, Spike hasn’t noticed that he’s hard.

Unlikely, but Angel has to hope.

“I did tell Connor we were coming in. It’s not my fault he doesn’t tell you important things.”

It’s a cheap shot, but Angel has to cling to what he can, even if it makes him sound petty – which he’s not, despite the scathing look Spike offers him. He knows that look too, and can guess when Spike glances down at his crotch what form his verbal retaliation is about to take.

“You reek,” he snaps before Spike can say a word. “Go take a shower—”

The _boy_ that wants to follow that order stays stuck in his throat when his gaze falls on Connor as he walks out of the kitchen. His pants are riding low and he’s not wearing a shirt. Angel’s jaw clenches and he turns away, walking over to the living room area.

“If we could get to the point?” Wesley sounds mildly annoyed as he follows Angel. “You told us to treat you as Angelus and I’m not all that far from thinking we should.”

“I’ll be back,” Connor says somewhere behind Angel, even as Spike says, “You still haven’t explained to them?”

With a sigh, Angel sits at one end of the sofa – right where he was earlier, though his mood has soured considerably since then. It sours yet a little more when Wesley claims the other end of the sofa, and Angel has to give himself a mental shake. It’s not like Connor would have sat with him anyway, not when his _boyfriend_ is in the room, now sprawled in the armchair. At least one of them is showing some consideration, Angel thinks as he hears the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

Trying his best to ignore Spike and his unhelpful comments, Angel gives Wes that overdue explanation of what he did and why as far as the Black Thorn is concerned. Wesley’s expression, as he listens intently, is a strange mix of relief and worry.

“So there you go,” he finishes just as Connor walks out of the bedroom, wet hair slicked back and fully clothed. “I only know of these four players. Should we take them down or try to identify more?”

As Angel expected, Connor sits with Spike, perching himself on the armrest and throwing his arm over the back. The glance Spike gives him is a hungry leer. Angel looks away, turning back to Wes.

“Now you ask what we think?”

There’s something that sounds a lot like disapproval in Wesley’s voice. Angel pretends not to hear it. He had expected worse.

“It concerns all of us. Of course I want to know what you think.”

Wesley’s frown deepens. “I think whatever we do, it’s not going to end well.” His gaze drifts toward Connor, quickly returning to Angel. “Are you sure—”

Angel isn’t the only one who noticed that worried look. Connor interrupts Wes abruptly. “I say we take Vail down first.”

They all stare at him as he continues with a thin, almost savage smile. “And by that I mean, _I_ take him down. I’ve already got an excuse. Not too fond of people fucking with my head, especially if they’re dumb enough to let me remember they did.”

Angel stands before he knows it, instinctively crossing his arms. “That is not happening.”

Connor meets his gaze full on. “You told them you were grooming me to be your successor. They’ll be expecting to see me do something that proves it.”

Angel can feel a muscle ticking in his cheek. “No. Vail has more magic than you can imagine. Blunt force would not help. You’re not doing this.”

“Blunt force, maybe not,” Wesley says slowly, “but if Connor and I combine our skills—”

Angel turns a glare to Wes, silently demanding that he stay out of this, but Wesley’s attention is on Connor. 

“No,” Angel says again, but they’re not listening.

“I could visit you in your office," Connor says, talking faster now, excitement winning him over. Angel has heard him talk like this before – about hunting. “We could talk of how sweet life was when you didn’t know you were a kidnapper and I didn’t know I was Oedipus.”

The barest flicker of a smile pierces on Wesley’s lips. “If anyone happened to overhear us it’d lend credit to the whole thing being no more than revenge, yes.”

Angel steps right between them, glaring at Wes then at Connor. “Have you heard me? I said _no_.”

Connor rolls his eyes at him. “You asked for our opinion. It’s two to one.”

As much as it vexes him to have to do this, Angel looks at Spike. Surely he can’t want Connor to be in any kind of danger. Before Spike can do more than give him a startled look however, Connor scoffs.

“Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but he’s not your _boy_ anymore.”

The inflection Connor gives the word makes it clear that he’s not using it by accident. Angel is not sure what it means – and he’s not sure either that he wants to know what it means. There are more disturbing thoughts hiding behind that boastful claim than Angel cares to examine. 

The one thing Angel does know is that Connor doesn’t understand Spike half as well as he believes he does, because he seems oblivious to the way Spike is stiffening, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Connor.

“It’s not what we’re talking—” Angel starts, hoping to calm things down before the storm can break, but it’s too late already.

Spike stands. His tone is deceptively mild as he interrupts Angel. “It’s not? You’re sure about that? ‘Cause I don’t mind being a soldier, but I’m not going to be anyone’s pawn.” Raising his chin, he meets Angel’s eyes squarely. “Not yours.” He turns back to Connor, his voice now frosted over with ice as sharp and cutting as glass. “And not yours either. Play games all you want, but I’m sitting this one out.”

He walks away stinking of wounded pride. Connor looks stunned, and Angel is torn between telling him how to fix things and leaving him to learn from his mistakes.

Wesley clears his throat before he can decide. “Yes, well, I don’t want to rouse suspicions by staying here too long. Connor, I trust you know where my office is if you decide this is what you want to do.” 

Angel watches him leave, frowning. The turn of events does not please him, but he’s not exactly surprised that Wes is ready to move against his wishes. The trust between them has been broken one time too many, it seems.

With a deep sigh, he sits back down and considers Connor. He can’t help seeing him covered in bruises as he was only days ago. He never wants to see him hurt again.

“Going after Vail is suicide,” he says very low, putting all his conviction in his words – and trying to hide his fears. He expects Connor to claim he can do this, but gets a very different kind of argument instead.

“And taking the Black Thorn on your own wasn’t?”

“That’s not…” He shakes his head. “I would have told the gang. They’d have helped.”

Connor’s eyes flicker toward the kitchen, where the microwave is buzzing softly. “Is that why you let Spike come to me?” he asks quietly. “Because you thought he’d die soon helping you take them down?”

“No,” he says at once, and can see that Connor doesn’t believe him. “I never thought you two would…” He grimaces. “Like each other. I thought he’d get bored. Or you. You weren’t fond of vampires before.”

He hears the accusation in his own words, along with the unvoiced question. Connor watches him for a little while, his eyes unreadable. Was it only hours ago that they were talking, in this same living room, and connecting in a way they had never managed before? Why has that easiness disappeared already?

“I was never fond of vampires that kill humans,” Connor says at last. “That hasn’t changed.”

A day earlier, Angel would have taken the words as a thinly veiled reminder of what he did in that mall. After their earlier talk, though, he hopes that it’s not what Connor means.

“I can’t let you confront Vail,” he tries again. “It’s too dangerous.”

“No. What’s dangerous is keeping me out of the way like a little boy. How long until they realize you lied if you do that?”

It makes sense. It makes too much sense. Angel hates himself for seeing that, but he knows Connor is right. The one way to keep him safe is to send him to fight. But it doesn’t have to be Vail, though.

“Connor…” He’s practically pleading now. “You can’t ask me to watch you get hurt again. Get killed again.”

“I’m asking you to trust that I can take care of myself. _Trust_ me, Dad. Please.”

*

After accompanying his father back to the door, Connor turns to the kitchen and sighs softly. He runs a hand through his damp hair, then dries his fingers on his jeans in an absentminded gesture. He doesn’t feel the smallest bit of fear at the idea of confronting Vail, but talking with Spike fills him with nervousness and dread.

At the back of his mind, his first argument with Tracy after they slept together stands out sharply; she took that argument as an excuse to end things between them. He remembers, also, though he wishes he didn’t, another woman breaking things off the morning after a night filled with fire and what he mistakenly though was love. 

He hasn’t even had a morning after with Spike yet – unless the morning after fooling around counts? It’s not really the same. He just hopes he will get a proper one.

Wiggling his bare toes in the thick carpet, he delays a little longer before pushing away from the door. Better to get it over with – whichever way it’ll go.

He approaches the kitchen quietly, and slips onto a high stool behind the dividing wall without making a sound. Spike is standing on the other side of the kitchen, in front of the window, Los Angeles sprawled out at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Connor tries, and although he would like the words to be strong, they come out as a reluctant whisper.

Spike’s only response is a slight shrug; if Connor hadn’t been looking at him so intently, he might have missed it. 

“I shouldn’t have assumed you’d agree with me,” he tries again.

Spike still doesn’t look at him. “I do agree with you,” he says calmly. “I don’t know how dangerous that guy is, but standing still would probably be worse.”

Taken aback, Connor lets out a quiet little, “Oh. Good,” but he’s confused more than relieved. If this is not why Spike is mad… 

It doesn’t take him long to figure it out. “Oh,” he says again, now frowning. ”So you thought I was right but you wouldn’t have taken my side?”

Spike finally turns to him and gives him an exasperated look. “ _Of course_ I would have taken your side. You think I’ve got a problem with saying no to Angel?”

He doesn’t even seem to realize that his words could be interpreted in more than one way. Connor tries not to think of the way Spike doesn’t mean them – tries not to wonder if Spike would say no to sleeping with Angel now, and what would happen if he didn’t – and focuses instead on the problem at hand.

Except… He doesn’t see where the problem is. “If you agreed with me and you’d have taken my side, then why are you mad?”

Scoffing, Spike comes over to the counter and leans over it, his face now inches from Connor’s. “I’m not his boy anymore, am I? Did you _have_ to shove it in his face?”

His eyes widening in outrage, Connor shakes a finger at Spike. “I took a shower!” he sputters, leaving out the part about not even thinking about the way they smelled of each other and come until Angel mentioned it. “You didn’t! How is that not shoving it in his face?”

Spike nods. “You’re right. It’s the exact same thing.”

Yet again, Connor is thrown in for a loop. He drops his hand to the counter, confused. “So you’re admitting you’re being a hypocrite?”

Spike sits on the stool across from him and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Why do you think I didn’t go wash up like a good little boy?” he asks, propping his chin on his closed fist.

Connor presses his hands flat onto the counter until his fingernails turn white. He's _not_ a good little boy. He just smelled, and he decided to be considerate, that's all. “I just thought…” He shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “You wanted to piss him off. You’re always trying to piss him off.” 

Without him meaning them to, his words have taken an accusatory edge. It doesn’t seem to bother Spike in the least.

“I am, yes,” he says, making it sound like it’s no big deal. “And he expects it from me. It’s just the way we are.” 

Something dark coils around Connor’s heart at that simple word - _we_. He knows Spike doesn’t mean anything by it, but just the same, he doesn’t like it. 

“So what?” he mutters. “You're allowed to piss him off any way you can think of but I can’t?”

Spike clucks his tongue like he’s disappointed. Heat is rising in Connor’s cheeks; anger, he tells himself. Nothing more.

“If all you’d wanted was to piss him off, believe me, I’d have been the first to applaud. But you _didn’t_ , did you? You wouldn’t have bothered washing up if you did.”

He pauses and raises an eyebrow as though daring Connor to say he’s wrong. Connor pinches his lips tightly and keeps quiet.

“You were using me,” Spike says dryly. “Daddy said no, so you pushed me in his face like a distraction.” His voice climbs a little higher, and so does the heat in Connor’s face. “'Think you can stop me, Dad? Well, you didn’t stop me from taking him, did you?’” His eyes narrow and he leans closer again. “Fuck that,” he says very low. “I’m not your toy, not any more than I’m his. The sooner you get this, the better off we’ll all be.”

He pushes away from the counter and walks around it to leave the kitchen. Connor isn’t sure where he’s going; he only knows he has to stop him before it’s too late. Sliding off the stool, he catches his wrist, releasing a shaky huff of breath when Spike doesn’t pull free instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, although this time he knows what he’s sorry for. “I get it. I won’t do it again.”

Spike considers him for a few endless seconds before nodding lightly. More relieved than he’d care to admit, Connor kisses him, the barest touch of his mouth on Spike’s, their arms easily sliding around one another.

“Look at that,” Connor says, choking a little on the words. “First argument and we haven’t killed each other.”

 _Or broken up_ , he finishes silently.

Spike rests his forehead against Connor’s. “Silly boy.” The words are filled with fondness even though he mutters them. “You do know what the best part about arguing is, don’t you?”

Connor can’t help chuckling at that. They really are OK. “Making up?”

*

Connor’s shirt is the first to fall under Spike’s impatient hands. As far as Spike is concerned, it’s practically criminal to cover such a lovely expanse of flesh. He intends to find the AC settings for the apartment at the first opportunity. Raising the base temperature a few degrees should help making clothes optional – or at least that’s his plan. 

His hands roam over Connor’s chest and back as the two of them stumble to the bedroom, their lips never parting for more than a second or two at a time. There’s an eagerness to Connor’s kisses that almost tastes of relief; Spike isn’t too sure what had him so worried, but he’s certainly not complaining if this is the aftermath. 

They stop at the foot of the bed and attack each other’s zippers and buttons. Connor is the first to kick off his pants and he sits on the bed, sliding up toward the headboard. Spike climbs in after him and follows on all fours. A shudder rocks Connor’s body and he stops, letting Spike catch up with him. Their hard cocks brush together when Spike covers his body and descends for another kiss. Rocking against Connor’s so warm flesh, Spike thrusts his tongue inside that inviting mouth, the same way he wants to thrust into his body. Connor kisses back just as aggressively, pushing Spike’s tongue back into his mouth and caressing it with his own. When Spike pretends to bite, he gasps away.

“Am I imagining things,” he says in a raspy voice, his fingers and nails trailing fire down Spike’s back, “or do you have a thing for biting?”

Spike chuckles then rakes his teeth along Connor’s jaw. “Very observant. You mind?”

“Not as much as I probably should. Just…”

He doesn’t finish, but Spike hears him quite clearly. He presses a peck to Connor’s lips and looks into his eyes, trying to reassure him. “Not gonna draw blood,” he says, then can’t help himself and adds, “Not unless you ask very nicely.”

Connor snorts and kisses him, one hand pressing at the back of Spike’s head to hold him down, the other clutching at his hip. They nip at each other’s tongue and lips playfully until Connor arches beneath Spike, pushing and rolling him onto his side, then onto his back. For the first time, he lies on top of Spike, his body fitting very nicely between Spike’s legs. Spike bucks up, pressing his cock harder against Connor’s belly, eliciting a quiet moan from him.

Connor moves down and presses tiny, barely there kisses against Spike’s chest before raising his head and asking, “Can I… you know?”

Spike smirks up at him and crosses one arm behind his head. “Nope. I don’t. Can you do what, pet?”

“Can I… fuck you?” 

The heat that colors Connor’s cheeks is not entirely due to lust. It would be easy to poke fun at his hesitation but Spike is curious. Earlier, Connor showed himself more malleable, more passive than what Spike would have expected. Enthusiastic, certainly, but allowing himself to be led in a way he never accepted out of the bedroom so far. Spike has been wondering if it was a fluke brought on by first-time jitters, Connor’s way to apologize for being a right prat, or something ingrained much deeper. The way he reacted to that one word was certainly interesting. Spike can’t wait to see how this will play out.

“Know what to do?” he asks, making sure to keep his words level.

“I’m not an idiot,” Connor mutters, but there’s just the slightest waver in his voice that betrays his nervousness.

“Go right ahead, then.”

Spike draws up one foot to rest flat on the bed then reaches beneath the pillow and pulls the lube out to hand out to Connor. Pulling slowly on his own cock, he watches those trembling hands pull the cap off and squeeze an overly generous amount onto Connor’s fingers. Amused despite himself, Spike bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to grin. The boy’s nervous enough, no need to—

Spike hisses, from surprise as much as discomfort, when two impatient fingers jab at his hole. Connor looks at him in alarm.

“Not adverse to a bit of pain,” Spike says dryly, “but a warning would be nice, heh?”

Sitting back on his heels, Connor lifts his hand off Spike. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding equally mortified and apologetic. “Maybe you should—”

Spike clucks his tongue. “Come on, now, boy. No pouting. Just, step by step, yeah? We’ll have time to work our way to fisting.”

Connor blinks, then his eyes grow very wide before he ducks his head, hiding behind his bangs. Spike makes a mental note for later. They’ve got plenty of time, plenty of things to try – and he’s got a feeling that Connor won’t be all that reluctant in experimenting. Lovely boy is a keeper.

The tip of Connor’s index finger is circling Spike’s entrance, slower now, more careful, as though waiting for a sign that it’s OK to move ahead.

“Go on,” Spike says. “Try again. Nice and easy, now.”

Bottom lip caught between his teeth, Connor glances up at him before doing what he is told. Spike’s quiet hum is a response to both that look and the gentle finger pressing inside him, retreating, pressing in again.

“That’s it,” he continues on the same encouraging tone when Connor looks at him again. His eyes are dark, showing his desire for more, and Spike is right there with him. “Another one.”

Connor obeys at once, and Spike barely holds in a moan. It’s not that the boy is too fast, or too rough. It’s the look on his face, the hunger, the trepidation, the need to feel good but also the need to make Spike feel good.

It’s certainly not the first time someone has wanted to offer him pleasure, but he’s not used to seeing that desire painted so plainly on his partner’s face. He really could get used to this.

“There you go, pet. Crook your fingers a bit, just…” 

He gasps, drawing Connor’s eyes and delighted grin to him. “Like that?” Connor asks, breath hitching in his throat.

Spike smiles back. “Yeah, just like that.”

Seemingly emboldened, Connor keeps pressing and massaging Spike’s prostate until Spike starts moaning quietly. He pulls back, then, and a third, slick finger teases at Spike’s opening, but Connor asks before moving forward, “One more's OK?”

Spike hums his approval, his eyelids fluttering close at the feel of those slim fingers stretching him further. Connor is doing just fine on his own, but Spike is enjoying directing his actions a bit too much to stop quite yet. “Spread your fingers a bit,” he suggests. “Gently, now. Mmm.”

A low, choked sound draws his gaze back to Connor. He’s fucking Spike’s with the fingers of his right hand, jerking himself off with the left, and he looks absolutely entranced by what he’s doing. His eyes flicker up to Spike and meet his gaze. “So _tight_ ,” he says, just a little breathless.

Spike chuckles soundlessly. “Can you imagine what it’ll be like around your cock?”

A flash of need crosses Connor’s face, leaving hints of desperation beading at his temples like glittering jewels. “Please,” he says, choking on the word.

Wanting to delay just a little longer so he can have his fill of Connor’s pleading, Spike can’t help asking, “Please what?”

Connor practically whimpers. His fingers stop moving, pressed as deep inside Spike as they can go. “Are you ready?” he asks, all but begging. “Can I?”

Pushing himself up with one hand, Spike cups the back of Connor’s head with the other and draws him in for a kiss that starts as sweet as Connor's pleas and ends up as desperate. “Fuck me,” he says as he pulls back, and can feel Connor’s breath of relief on his lips.

Connor fumbles with the lube and slicks himself before moving closer. His hand ghosts over Spike’s leg. Without needing further directions, Spike raises his legs and rests them on Connor’s shoulders, drawing him forward. Connor licks his lips, his eyes fleeting over Spike. They run from his face to his cock, hard and straining on his belly, then down to his ass, displayed and waiting. Spike could swear he can feel the touch of that gaze as clearly as though Connor had caressed him with his hand.

With his cock just pressing against Spike’s entrance, Connor takes a deep breath – then freezes. Looking up, he meets Spike’s eyes and licks his lips nervously.

“You’re not…”

Spike groans in frustration. He’s all for delayed gratification, but Connor is _killing_ him. “Not what?” he asks, a growl hardening his voice. “Ready? Told you I am, just—”

“You’re not going to compare, are you?”

It takes a couple of seconds for Connor’s whisper to start making sense. Spike shakes his head on the pillow. He could say this is unexpected – but he would be lying. Angel has been with them every step of the way since they first met – of course he’s here now, too. That doesn’t mean Spike has to be happy about it.

“Only one of us thinking about him right now. And it sure as hell isn’t me.”

Rolling his hips, he bears down onto Connor’s cock, drawing him inside his body. Connor hisses and closes his eyes tight. He opens them again when he starts moving, his hands finding purchase on Spike’s thighs. He can’t settle on a rhythm at first, his eagerness trumping him. Spike rests a hand on his hip to steady him, and after a few seconds Connor sets a strong page, as regular as his heartbeat. 

“That’s it,” Spike croons, “good boy.” 

Connor groans at the word, and Spike can’t resist saying it again. “My good boy.”

This time, Connor jerks forward, slamming hard enough inside Spike to pull grunts from the both of them. His eyes are locked with Spike’s, the pupils so wide that they seem darker than they’ve ever been. Lust is flowing from him in waves stronger with every caress of Spike’s hand along his chest and up to his shoulder. 

Spike kneads there for a moment before inching closer to Connor’s throat. As light as his fingertips are, Connor falters, losing his rhythm until Spike relents and lets his hand drift higher. He cups Connor’s cheek and runs his thumb over his parted lips, feeling each harsh moan as well as he hears it, as clearly as he feels Connor’s cock pushing inside him and filling him with fire.

His left hand has stopped pulling at his cock and simply holds it up. With each push of Connor’s hips, the wet tip brushes lines of precome over Connor’s skin. He doesn’t try to silence the groans that rise from his throat; at each one, a shudder runs through Connor, urging him to thrust harder yet until his pace is as frantic as his breathing. 

“Let it go, luv,” Spike says, the words jagged and raspy. “Give ‘t to me.”

Connor closes his eyes again. His hands curl tight enough on Spike’s flesh to bruise. He buries himself deep one last time and freezes, head thrown back and throat bared. Spike presses hard onto his cock to stop himself from coming at that lovely and all too brief sight. Already, Connor’s body is slackening. When Spike’s legs slip off his shoulders, he falls forward, his face pressed against Spike’s neck, Spike’s still hard cock and his hand trapped between them. His breath comes out in fast, uneven puffs against Spike’s skin, and each of them is an added layer of sensation that causes Spike to shiver beneath him.

“I’m sorry,” Connor murmurs in a small, breathy voice.

Spike brushes his fingers though hair that’s still a little bit damp but always so soft. “For what, luv?”

“For sucking.” He raises his head and gives Spike a kicked puppy look, whispering as sweetly as though he were confessing a sin, “You didn’t come.”

Spike struggles with himself not to chuckle. “And you didn’t suck,” he says. “Not by a long stretch. But if you _want_ to suck…”

He lets the suggestion hang in the air. He certainly wouldn’t mind finishing things that way, but he’s close, so close that the first touch of that pretty warm mouth might be enough. It seems like a shame to rush things that way. 

Connor chuckles weakly, sounding a little uneasy, and Spike doesn’t push. There’ll be other occasions; he can wait for a proper blowjob. Pushing lightly so that they roll onto their sides, he lets go of his cock just long enough to bring Connor’s hand to it and hisses at the heat of that simple touch. They link their fingers together; it won’t take long. Connor watches him the entire time, his expression intense as though he’s trying to commit Spike’s face to memory. When Spike’s body turns rigid and he comes onto their hands and stomachs, Connor kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll make it better next time,” he says very softly, the promise unmistakable in his words and eyes.

Spike brings up his hand and brushes a come-stained finger across Connor’s closed lips. Connor hesitates only a second before sneaking his tongue out for a taste. His eyes narrow and he makes a quiet little hum in his throat. Spike smiles.

“I’m sure you will, my boy.”

He paints another line of come over his own lips; he doesn’t have to wait long before Connor licks them clean.

*

By a complete coincidence, Angel is there to witness Connor coming back from his first day at the internship on Monday afternoon. It's a little strange to see him wearing a tie along with a crisp white shirt and black pants, but he pulls off the look rather nicely. He'd look even better in a tailored suit, though. That can be arranged.

Angel received a call the minute Connor entered the building, of course, but it’s really by sheer happenstance that he happens to be by Harmony’s desk when Connor steps out of the elevator. Angel needed to review his schedule for the week with her, that’s all.

At least that’s his story, should anyone ask.

Not that anyone does. Connor looks in his direction and nods, just once, a faint smile curling his lips, but before Angel can take a step toward him and inquire how the internship is going so far, Connor’s gaze has moved on. Angel looks back at the appointment book in his hands rather than witness Spike wrapping himself around his son in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh my God Spike is gay!”

Harmony’s shocked exclamation draws Angel's attention to her, even though he already knows he’ll regret it.

“Did you see that?” she all but shrieks, pointing at the scene behind him and taking him to witness. “And all this time I thought there was something wrong with me! That he turned to the Slayer because I broke his heart! But I get it now.” She huffs and shuffles the assorted unicorns that litter her desk. “He just couldn’t admit he was gay so he used me to distract himself and then he tried to annoy her enough so she’d kill—”

Angel has had enough; he tunes her out. How oblivious can she be, really? It’s not like she wasn’t out there, at her desk, well within vampire hearing range, while they—

“And parading with a twinkie, too!” 

Harmony now sounds insulted. Angel finds that he feels the same. He doesn’t know what Connor has to do with junk food, but it can’t possibly be a compliment. He can’t stop a growl from rising from his throat and she gives him a startled look.

“Worry a little less about Spike and my _son_ ,” he says sharply, “and a little more about your job. Find me Senator Brucker’s number.”

It’s clear from Harmony’s widening eyes that she has more questions than Angel cares to hear, let alone answer. Dropping the schedule on the counter, he turns away from her desk just in time to see Connor and Spike walk into Wesley’s office. They leave the door open. He wants to berate them for being too obvious, but after a second or two, the door closes. 

Angel manages to tear his gaze away. He enters his office and slams the door behind him, though he couldn’t tell if his annoyance stems from seeing Spike’s all too possessive hand resting at Connor’s waist, matching Connor’s own hand on him, or from knowing what they are setting in motion at that moment. He has agreed to let Connor go forward with his plan – not that he knows how he could have stopped him – but he still doesn’t like it. He can still see those bruises much too clearly in his mind. If Connor gets hurt…

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Connor gets hurt, but it’ll probably ruin all his planning, and this time without hope to mend things. Not that Angel would care, at that point.

For the moment, though, mending things and sticking up to the plan is still his priority – or at least one of them. Harmony finds him that number, and Angel steels himself before he dials it. Senator Brucker may look human, but she creeps him out in a way that most demons can’t begin to achieve. Still, he can be a decent actor when the circumstances require it. 

She takes his call, and that’s certainly a good first step, but the conversation itself is strained. She confirms that she is satisfied by the services Wolfram & Hart are providing, but when Angel invites her to discuss what else he can do to help her reelection, she’s less amenable.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Angel.” She says it the way she would deny a child candy before dinner. “I’m sure you realize that the little stunt you pulled made you more than suspect in our eyes.”

“Not a stunt, senator,” he says, forcing himself to smile and hoping she’ll hear it. “A bet.”

“A bet?” she repeats, taking the bait. “A man in your position cannot afford to wager.”

“Ah, but everything is a gamble, Senator.” He leans back into his chair and closes his eyes. It’s not all that hard to summon Angelus’ easy way with words. Angel hates doing it, but he really is gambling – and he has too much to lose not to use all the weapons in his arsenal.

For the next fifteen minutes, he tries to convince her that he has ambitions much grander than an office in a law firm’s building, and that these ambitions require him to have close allies he can trust with his life – allies that can kill as well as they can obey his orders. She has her own inner guard; he knows she understands his point.

By the time he’s done, they have a brunch appointment for the end of the week.

As Angel hangs up the phone, the smile falls off his face and he has to stop himself from wiping his hands over his pants. He feels dirty, and a shower won’t be of much use. Swallowing a sigh, he returns to Harmony’s desk and instructs her in putting the appointment in his schedule. His gaze, though, quickly returns to Wes’ office. The door is still closed. He can’t know the details, can’t even appear to know they are planning something, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing he could.

Spike had better make sure everything goes fine or there’ll be hell to pay.

*

When Connor walks out of the elevator, Spike’s first thought is that it’s a good thing he stayed in bed that morning, curled up in the newly-abandoned warm spot, rather than accompanied Connor to the door like a pathetic sod. Because if he had seen that pretty blue tie around his boy’s neck, he would have come up with a lot of interesting uses for that scrap of silk – like he is right now – and Connor would have been late for his first day. And he would probably have been pissed off, once the afterglow faded. Whereas _now_ , he thinks as he draws Connor close and breathes in his scent, they have all evening for—

“Hey, mind if I stop by Wesley’s office? I wanted to have a little chat with him.”

Right. So maybe Spike should have pulled himself out of bed this morning to have his wicked way with Connor, nevermind working hours and potential crabbiness. He makes note of it for future reference and swallows a frustrated sigh.

“Sure. On we go, then.”

Connor’s mouth opens for what Spike can imagine is a protest that this is between him and Wes. Spike raises a preemptive eyebrow. He’s damn well not sitting this one out. For one thing, from what he’s heard, Connor might use another pair of hands. For the other, he knows quite well whom Angel would blame if Connor skinned his knee taking down that Vail guy – let alone if he was hurt any more than that.

The silent conversation ends with Spike’s victory. His arm sliding to Connor’s waist, he turns them to Wesley’s office, whose door is conveniently open. Connor’s arm mirror his, but his hand is tight on Spike’s side. So, he’s not as detached as he wants to pretend, is he? Somehow, it reassures Spike. If both Angel and Wesley are wary of Vail, Connor shouldn’t be too cocky about his ability to kill him.

Besides, there are plenty of other things he can rightfully be cocky about – things that unfortunately Spike can’t think about at the moment if he expects to follow the conversation.

“Hi Wesley,” Connor says with a thin smile as they step in. “You have a minute?”

Wesley feigns surprise at seeing them there and points at the chairs in front of his desk. Connor takes a seat while Spike looks around, wondering where Illyria is. He hasn’t seen her since leaving her and Connor to look over Drogyn at his place. He hopes she’s all right. 

Frowning a little at the thought, he closes the door before leaning back against it, arms crossed over his chest. He’s got enough on his plate with Connor; he’ll have to leave Illyria to Wes.

“You remember everything, don’t you?” Connor asks when Wesley inquires what brought him there.

“More than I wish I did,” Wesley replies wryly. “Two sets of memories can be confusing. Especially when the fake ones are nicer.” He considers Connor thoughtfully for a moment. “Although I imagine yours are a lot nicer than mine. A perfect childhood, I suppose?”

From where he stands behind him, Spike can see a muscle tick in Connor’s neck. It tells him a lot, but not nearly enough. As Connor chuckles, the sound so dry it's almost painful, Spike moves to the small sofa on the side of the room, where he’ll be able to see them both.

“Not getting kidnapped when I was just a couple weeks old helped, yeah.” 

There’s just enough of a steely edge in his words that Wesley’s thin smile wavers. He brings a hand to his neck and rubs at it absently.

“Didn’t you have a scar?” Connor asks, his eyes following Wesley’s movement, his hand imitating it.

Wesley shrugs. “Part of the price I paid for taking you from your father.”

As soon as Connor’s eyebrows rise, Spike knows they’ve had the same thought. When Connor doesn’t ask, Spike does. “Angel cut your throat?”

Wesley gives a small start, as though just remembering that Spike is in the room too. His gaze turns to him before returning to Connor. “Oh, no, not Angel. Although I’m sure at the time he wished he had.”

His tone tries to make a joke out of it, but none of them is laughing. Instead, Connor says, his hand finally dropping from his neck to curl in a fist on his thigh, “He cut mine, but I don’t have a scar either.”

The blood drains from Wesley’s face, leaving him as pale as the sheets of paper spread out on his desk. Spike only spares him a glance before detailing Connor’s expression. The last time his boy spoke of this, he was nearly hysterical. This time, he’s calm. It’s the same pain in his voice, though.

Wesley clears his throat. “I would think,” he starts, but stops when his voice breaks. From the way he licks his lips, Spike guesses that, right then, Wesley wouldn’t say no to a nice glass of scotch; neither would he. “Magic as strong as the one that changed our memories sometimes requires… offerings.”

What he means, and Spike is sure they all hear the word, is ‘sacrifice’. In Spike’s mind, Connor is laid out on an altar of white marble when Angel takes his life, and his blood, dark enough to seem black, stains it forever. Damn but he really wishes Wesley had a liquor cabinet as well stocked as Angel’s.

“I don’t like magic,” Connor says darkly, and draws a snort from Wesley.

“I remember that too, yes. Unfortunately, there isn’t much either of us can do—”

“You know who did this to me,” Connor interrupts him. “You know who did this to _us_. Don’t you?”

And so it starts, Spike thinks to himself, leaning forward so he won’t lose a word.

*

When Connor speaks to Wesley on Monday, he knows what he has to say. He has thought about it all day rather than paying as much attention as he should have at the architect firm. He doesn’t want to talk about all of this again, not when he’s not even sure they need to. For all they know, they could close the door and talk about the weather, and raise the same suspicions from whoever is watching. 

Because someone _is_ watching, he’s quite certain of it. They all are. The firm being what it is, the only safe place in the building, or so Angel told him before leaving two nights earlier, is his apartment. Even then, how long will that last? He truly does loathe magic. He remembers a time when card tricks and illusions made him stare wide-eyed and a little awed; he knows better, now – again.

Three days later, Wesley visits a little before nightfall. Meeting in his office was necessary to throw Wolfram & Hart off Angel’s scent when this goes down, but it’s time to be more discreet. They plan.

Wesley has followed the trail of those rare ingredients that keep Vail’s body alive, and they now know where he’s been hiding since the whole Sahjhan thing went down. Connor remembers threatening him, that day, before he knew what he was capable of – before he knew who he was – before he knew it was his father standing at his side. He won’t give him a warning this time.

After discussing it for a little while, they decide to attack Friday. Vail might be going from hideout to hideout, and they don’t want to lose his trail now that they found him. Acting fast is also necessary because they made no secret that they were planning something. 

Connor wishes he could do this alone. It has been a long, very long time since he needed to know someone was at his back when he was hunting – since he needed someone to watch, and praise, and encourage him to do even better next time. But it’s not just a demon he faces, it’s also that too dangerous, too unpredictable magic. Wesley assures him he can help, and Connor has to believe him. There really isn’t anyone else, is there?

He goes on thinking it will be just the two of them right until the moment Spike says that no, they’re not attacking before nightfall. He doesn’t bother explaining why. It’s not like he needs to. And deep down, Connor isn’t all that surprised. Spike has been quiet for most of the planning, but he also has been attentive. If he had thought any part of it all was less than adequate, he would probably have said something – like he just did.

On the other side of the kitchen island, Wesley looks up from his box of Chinese take-out and glances from Connor to Spike and back, although without a word. It seems he’s staying out of this as much as he stayed out of Connor’s confrontation with Angel, letting them resolve it on their own and ready to continue after they have. Connor puts his box of noodles down and turns to Spike. Sitting on the counter on the side of the kitchen, he finished his own food a while ago – both the take-out and the blood. His expression is almost challenging.

“I don’t even have the beginning of a chance, do I?” Connor asks with an exaggerated sigh.

“No, you don’t,” Spike replies flatly. “So don’t insult us both by trying.” His eyebrow rises almost mockingly. “Unless you’re finally up for that spanking, boy?”

Spike isn't even finished that Wesley chokes on a bit of food. He slides off his stool to go to the sink and pour himself a glass of water. Connor stares at Spike, wide-eyed and his cheeks burning fiercely. _This_ , Connor really didn’t see coming. It’s one thing for Spike to call him _that_ or talk about spanking when they’re in bed – and it’s only talking, thank God, he really doesn’t want to know how that would turn out – but to do it in front of Wesley…

“I think we’re done here,” Wesley croaks, still coughing between words. “I’d better go check if Illyria is done destroying another training room. I will see you tomorrow night.”

He leaves so fast that Connor can’t even answer with more than one word. As the door clicks shut behind him, Connor glares at Spike – who gives him his most lascivious smirk as he slides off the counter. It dawns on Connor, then, that embarrassing him wasn’t the goal; getting Wesley out and fast was.

“You’re impossible,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We weren’t done planning.”

Spike saunters toward him and rests his hands on Connor’s sides. “Yes you were,” he says, chiding. The stool pivots under his touch. He nudges Connor’s legs apart and steps between them, as close as he can. 

Connor is a little bit annoyed; his awakening cock, however, doesn’t seem to mind Spike acting like the horny man that he always is.

“I’m not the one who deserves a spanking,” he mutters, but the words might sound more threatening if his palm wasn’t cupping the front of Spike’s jeans, feeling the hardness there.

Spike laughs, then kisses him, and Connor soon can’t remember why he was annoyed. He also can’t remember ever thinking he would go fight Vail with only Wesley at his side. He can’t remember either how different things were when he first met Vail – or rather, he doesn’t want to remember that. The one thing that stays at the front of his mind as he and Spike play, then go down to the streets for a different game, then come home for more playing, is that the next night, the true game is starting – and it won’t be just his life at stake this time.

*

It’s a little after nine on Friday night when Angel looks up from his work to see Spike pull Connor into his office, dragging him by the hand like he would a reluctant child. The first thing Angel notices is the exasperated look on Connor’s face; part of him is glad that Connor is not enamored enough not to be able to find fault with Spike. Angel certainly knows firsthand how annoying Spike can be. 

The second thing he sees is far less pleasant, and he stands without thinking, his eyes searching, finding a second singed patch on Connor’s jeans to match the one on his shirt. He presses his hands flat on the desk and pushes back the game face before it can come to the front.

“What happ—”

“He’s fine,” Spike cuts in, answering Angel’s anxious look with a small snort before looking at Connor. “Come on, pet. Tell Daddy what you did tonight.”

There’s enough excitement in Spike’s words that Angel wonders if he’s going to be treated to a detailed description of their last romp. He wouldn’t put it past Spike, and it would certainly explain Connor’s annoyance. 

“Jeez, Spike, what am I, five? Should I tell him what I learned in school today and what I had for lunch, too? He doesn’t want to hear it.”

Sitting back down, Angel bites back the comment that yes, he does. All week long, he has stopped himself from going to their apartment, hoping that Connor would come and tell him about the internship, about living in LA, about his childhood as he promised he would – hell, even about Spike. But other than waving at him from the lobby, Connor hasn’t come. Not until now.

It galls that he had to be brought in - by Spike, of all people.

Spike pulls and tugs at Connor’s hand until he grudgingly sits in the chair in front of Angel’s desk. Then again, if he didn’t want to sit, Angel doubts that Spike could make him, not without resorting to violence, and maybe not even then.

As he looks at Angel, Spike’s face splits into a wide grin. “Your son,” he says slowly, as though to make sure Angel hears every word, “is bloody brilliant.”

Angel leans back in his chair and smiles. “Of course he is. What did he do?”

Connor lets out a deep sigh when Spike looks at him expectantly and prods him again. “See, he does want to know. Tell him.”

“I killed Vail,” Connor mutters. The look he turns to Angel is somewhere between mutinous and hopeful, like he isn’t sure whether he’ll be scolded or praised.

If Angel’s heart was beating, it would probably skip a beat or two. His grin fades away, and it’s not entirely an act. He’s supposed to pretend he’s surprised and had no idea what Connor would do; the door is wide open, and anyone could be listening. But his surprise is all too real. How did they find Vail that fast? Why did they attack so quickly? Surely they could have planned better, could have prepared themselves more, could have—

“You killed Vail,” he repeats, and somehow a hint of pride is clinging to his words. He shouldn’t be proud of this, not when he gave so much for Connor to have a normal life, but he can’t help it. His son took down a member of the Black Thorn. “Alone?” he has to ask, his eyes flickering to Spike.

“Yes,” Spike says at once, still grinning.

At the same time, Connor says, “No.”

They look at each other and frown together.

“Wesley helped,” Connor points out. “And you—”

Spike waves his hand dismissively. “I was just there as back up, and you didn’t need any. As for Wesley, he was more of a decoy than anything else. You’re the one who did it.”

A small, embarrassed shrug is Connor’s answer, and somehow Angel likes that better than if Connor was boasting. He wants to ask for details – he wants to know everything – but he still has a role to play.

“You were supposed to keep him safe,” he says, glowering at Spike. “How does going after Vail qualify as safe exactly?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Connor protests, even as Spike scoffs.

“Like anyone could stop him once he sets his mind on something. He’s as bloody stubborn as you are. Good thing he’s smarter, at least.”

Ignoring the insult for now, Angel considers Connor for a moment. He would like to fuss over him and make sure that whatever left burned marks on his clothes didn’t reach his skin, but that’s not part of his role. As much as it pains him, he has to trust Spike will take care of Connor.

“I suppose Wes told you Vail changed your memories?” he says, keeping to the unwritten script.

Connor shrugs again. “I didn’t kill him because he gave me a pretty life,” he says as he stands. “I killed him because he gave me a family and then he went ahead and threatened them. Now he won’t touch them anymore. And he won’t take their memories away either.”

The words still follow the broad lines they agreed on, but Angel flinches when Connor says ‘family’ – and wonders how much of it is a warning should anyone else decide to threaten the Reillys, and how much is part of the act. He’s about to put an end to the play with an admonition to Connor and a stronger warning to Spike but Hamilton’s entrance throws him off track. He sees Connor’s sudden tension as he turns to Hamilton, sees his closing fists, and he reacts without thinking. “Spike.”

Spike is already at Connor’s side. He rests a hand at the small of his back and presses forward. “Let’s go, pet.”

Connor seems as reluctant to leave as he was to come in, and he glares at Hamilton while Spike guides him out of the office. Hamilton stares right back, although he has better sense than to do more than that. Angel warned him about keeping away from Connor. He still wishes he had left more of an impression; Hamilton didn’t even have the shadow of a bruise the next day.

“Anything I can help you with?” Angel asks once they’re alone.

Hamilton’s gaze is pure ice. “Do you know what your boy did?”

Angel makes a point of keeping his face blank. As proud as he is, he doubts it would help to show it now. “If you mean Vail, I know, yes. They just told me.”

“Vail was part of the Circle of the Black Thorn. The Senior Partners want to know what you intend to do about this.”

“What I intend to do?” Angel repeats, raising an eyebrow. “What do you _want_ me to do? Send him to his room? Oh wait. I just did that.”

Hamilton is not amused, and his expression says as much. Stepping closer to the desk, he crosses his arms and looks down at Angel with something very close to condescension. “If you can’t keep the child in line—”

“You had better not finish with a threat to my son,” Angel interrupts him coldly. “I told you I’d kill you if you touched a hair off his head again, and I still mean that.”

“Is that what you want me to tell the Senior Partners?” Hamilton asks, sounding disgusted. “That because he’s your _son_ he should be allowed to kill whomever he wants without any consequences?”

Angel shrugs. “Tell them what you want. But really, if a _child_ could kill Vail that easily, I doubt the Circle of the Black Thorn is going to miss him all that much.”

Uncrossing his arms, Hamilton adjusts his cuffs. His gaze never leaves Angel as though he were trying to weigh him. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he says at last.

Angel’s laugh is darker than the night that envelops LA. “I’m the CEO of Wolfram and Hart. Do you really think I have time to play games?”

*

Spike doesn’t relax his hold on Connor’s hand until they’re in the elevator, and even then he doesn’t completely let go. Connor’s scent, since Hamilton walked into his father’s office, has been all too easy to read, filled with the same determination as earlier, at Vail’s place. It’s a cold scent, as dry, as sparkling as diamonds – and as cutting.

“You’re not going to kill him,” Spike announces after pressing the button for their floor.

Connor’s eyes turn to him at once, flakes of ice dirtying the blue so that they seem gray. “I’m not?” he asks flatly.

“No, you’re not. I am.”

Connor pulls his hand free and crosses his arms, facing Spike fully. “You think he’s right?” He raises his chin just a hair higher. “You think I need a fucking babysitter?”

Spike clucks his tongue even as the elevator doors open. “Language, pet. Come on. Out you go.”

He herds Connor out of the elevator – he’s not giving him a chance to go back down; let Angel deal with Hamilton for now. Spike will get to him soon enough and make him bleed, like he made Connor bleed. 

Connor is bristling as he strides to their flat, keeping up the act. Of course, they could still be observed even now. Only the apartment is safe. When they enter, though, and Connor continues to smell like murder, Spike begins to wonder if it’s just an act. Did Connor forget it was all a game of pretending? They certainly were convincing, both of them, but still…

“No,” he says as he follows Connor into the kitchen, and explains himself when cold eyes barely glance at him. “No I don’t think you need a babysitter.” He pauses, considers the words that have instinctively come up to his lips, and despite his better judgment voices them too. “And he doesn’t think so either.”

Connor drains a glass of water before looking at him and muttering, “Could have fooled me.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Spike lays it across the kitchen island and approaches Connor. The stubborn boy turns away from him under the pretext of refilling his glass, but Spike doesn’t let that stop him. He presses his chest to Connor’s back, wrapping his arms around him and nipping at his ear. Connor jerks his head away and Spike chuckles.

“You two could have fooled me too,” he says, his fingers sliding beneath cotton to find skin. “And I’m sure you fooled—”

“Why did he send you to Stanford with me, then?” Connor interrupts abruptly, not letting the subject drop quite yet. “Why did you come with me tonight?”

He pulls out of Spike’s embrace and turns, giving him a reproachful look. Spike’s amusement fades away. It started as an act, certainly, but it seems that Connor got tangled in his own lies. Time to set him free.

“He sent me there because he knew I’d go anyway and he likes to think he’s in charge,” he says, his voice cutting. “And I came so I could watch you.”

He grabs Connor’s wrist and leads his hand to his crotch, pressing it down. He’s been hard since Connor first raised his sword.

“I _like_ watching you,” he adds, more gently now, allowing fondness to touch his eyes and smile. “You’re pretty when you fight.”

Connor grimaces, but when Spike releases his wrist, his hand remains where it is, rubbing in small circles. 

“I’m not _pretty_ ,” he mutters, making the word sound like an insult. “I’m not a freaking girl.”

“Never said you were a girl.” 

Spike’s eyes narrow as Connor presses a little harder against his cock. He leans into the touch, hoping Connor will undo the too tight fastenings of his jeans, like Spike is undoing Connor’s. The teeth of the zipper practically purr as he drags it down, oh so slowly, his thumb tracing the bulge he’s slowly exposing. 

“Girls usually don’t have one of those,” he says, slipping his hand inside Connor’s boxers. He finds a half-hard, burning cock that leaps into his hand at the very first touch. “And when they do have one,” he continues, leaning closer still so he can breathe the words against Connor’s lips, “they don’t know how to use it half as well as you do.”

He flicks his tongue against Connor’s lips at the same moment as he swipes the pad of his thumb against the slit. Connor shudders. His fingers clench along Spike’s cock, and the pressure is as good as a promise of things to come.

“You didn’t…” Connor’s voice cracks; he licks his lips and starts again, lower now. “You didn’t say anything. I tried so hard and you didn’t.”

Spike slides his hand over Connor’s cock, keeping the movement slow so he can feel every twitch, every pulse of blood as it finishes to harden. With each blink of Connor’s eyes, each flutter of those too pretty eyelashes – pretty like a girl’s, yes, even if that’s not how Spike meant it and even if he’ll never say it aloud – the irritation drifts away like rain clouds that didn’t burst, leaving clear skies behind.

“’Thought coming so hard I nearly blacked out was enough of a clue.” With his free hand, he cups the back of Connor’s head, pulling him forward until he can murmur in his ear, “But if you want to hear it, yeah, you fuck just as well as you fight, pet. You were _good_.” 

Connor’s hips thrust forward, pushing his cock through the tight ring formed by Spike’s fingers. “But you didn’t _say_ it,” he murmurs in a small, very small voice. “I just wanted…” 

Spike tightens his fingers when he doesn’t finish, drawing a whimper from Connor’s mouth. “What is it you want, pet?”

“I just wanted to know I did good.”

Spike pulls back to get a good look at him, and sure enough the same need that fills Connor’s voice is reflected in his eyes, big and a little bit shiny – hopeful.

Like he was hopeful, earlier, down in his father’s office.

It all clicks in Spike’s mind, and he could almost kick himself for not getting it sooner.

“You did _real_ good,” he murmurs. His fingers weave through Connor’s hair and tug lightly, like he’s tugging at his cock. “You’re a very good boy.” He brushes his lips against Connor’s and feels his moan as though the sound were a caress. “ _My_ very good boy. Aren’t you?”

Connor’s fingers finally - _finally!_ \- work at the fastenings of Spike’s jeans, then carefully guide his cock out. 

“Your good boy,” he repeats, and that barely there hint of obedience in his voice is as sweet as the first slip and slide of his hand on Spike’s cock. He rests his head on Spike’s shoulder, his breathing coming out in slow, uneven puffs against his skin.

“ _Very_ good,” Spike says, still very quiet, then hisses when Connor’s tempo shifts a little. “Whether you’re spread out under me and taking everything I give you—”

He squeezes Connor’s cock, eliciting a moan.

“—or pounding that lovely cock of yours inside me until I see stars—”

Connor rubs his cheek against Spike’s shoulder, pressing his face to the crook of his neck. Spike cards his fingers through his hair, as slowly as he works his cock, and Connor follows his rhythm.

“—or killing those demons like you were born for it.”

A shudder runs through Connor. As Spike spreads precome along his cock, he can only wonder how close his boy is. One of these days, he’s going to make him come without ever touching his cock, just with the right words whispered along his skin, and three of those words will be—

“My good boy.”

Connor moans softly. So very close…

“You showed me,” he whispers. “You taught me how to do it.”

He raises his head, biting down on his lower lip, and looks at Spike from underneath lowered eyelashes. Spike wants to kiss every single one of them in turn. He wants to draw the tortured bit of pink flesh into his own mouth and bite it for him. He wants—   
“Will you teach me…” Connor gently pulls Spike’s hand off his cock and, in one fluid, unexpected movement, drops to his knees in front of him. His face is level with Spike’s cock, but he looks up, meeting Spike’s eyes and whispering, “Will you teach me this?”

The tip of his tongue just flutters against the crown, right above where his fist is still curled. Spike shuts his eyes tightly and hopes – oh, how hard he hopes – that he’s not going to come in the next two seconds.

“That’s my good boy,” he says, his voice shaking, when he has a grip on himself. “Want to be the best cocksucker there is, is that it?”

Connor’s lips shifting into a smile against his flesh is the only answer he needs.

*

For a few days already, Connor has wanted to do this. Spike has done it three times to him, and each time, the look on his face, the fire in his eyes were almost as good as the feel of his lips and tongue.

He could give a decent blowjob, he thinks, if only by imitating Spike. But he wants to be better than decent. He wants Spike – _someone_ – to praise him. To be proud of him. For whatever reason.

He long ago left behind that world where infrequent words of praise were the ultimate reward. The time is almost as distant when working hard in school stopped being something he only did to please his mom. But on this night, in this place, he wants to hear it. He _needs_ to hear it. Spike already gave him a few words, but he wants more of them.

And so he lays a soft kiss against the side of Spike’s cock and looks up at him again. Spike’s eyes open; flames are dancing through them. Connor shudders. “Tell me what to do,” he asks, a little breathless.

“Kisses are a fine way to start.” Spike’s voice is a low rumble. He rests his hand at the back of Connor’s head, heavy but still for now.

Connor does as he is told, learning his way over Spike’s cock with his lips like he learned it, a few days ago, with his fingertips. 

Spike makes some quiet, appreciative noises. After a few moments, he tugs lightly on strands of Connor’s hair and says, “Good. Add a bit of tongue.”

Connor’s mouth feels dry, and he works up a bit of saliva before flicking his tongue at the underside of Spike’s cock, dragging it up to the head. He laps at the bead of precome there, then hunts for more, the tip of his tongue sliding against the slit.

“Nice,” Spike says, humming lightly. “Long licks, now. From my balls to the very tip. Can you do that, luv?”

Lifting his lips from Spike’s cock is beyond Connor, but he doesn’t need to talk to reply. He can just show Spike that yes, he can do it. He paints long, broad stripes along the entire length of Spike’s cock, holding it lightly between two fingers. His own dick is hard, and he can feel it twitching right along with Spike’s. Focused as he is on Spike’s pleasure, it doesn’t even occur to him to touch himself.

“Do you like popsicles, pet?” Spike asks out of the blue, sounding a little out of breath.

Something inside Connor wants to tell him there were no such things as popsicles where he grew up, but that’s not true, is it? He remembers Tootsie Pops and sticking out his tongue to try and see if it had turned blue, or red. He wonders what color his tongue will be when Spike comes. 

Taking Spike’s cock into his mouth, he starts sucking gently, his tongue swirling as though he were eating candy – except, no candy ever tasted so good.

“Yeah, just like…”

Spike’s gasp is sheer music. Despite his full mouth, Connor manages to grin. He glances up, hoping to meet Spike’s eyes, to see the pleasure in them, but Spike’s head is thrown back. Pleased that he’s got to be doing this right, Connor sucks a little harder still on the tip, his fist covering what his mouth doesn’t touch.

“Like that, don’t you?” Spike croons, raking his fingers through Connor’s hair. “That’s my good boy.”

Closing his eyes, Connor redoubles his efforts, delighting in every sound, every moan he draws from Spike. He could do this all night, he thinks, and at the back of his head a little voice wonders just how long he could draw this out, how close he could bring Spike to his orgasm before pulling back, letting him cool down, and starting all over again. 

When Spike’s second hand joins the first at the back of his head, he barely notices. Spike’s hips have started moving, accompanying Connor’s movements with shallow thrusts.

“Want to fuck your mouth,” Spike says, his voice so rough it’s almost a growl. “All right, pet?”

Connor moans around the hard flesh in his mouth, hoping it’s enough of an answer.

“Hand off,” Spike demands, but doesn’t wait for Connor to comply before he pushes forward, his hands holding Connor’s head in place. “Just let me in, luv. Just…”

He groans on the next thrust, keeping his pace slow, and Connor is grateful to be given time to adjust. This feels… strange. Almost as strange as when Spike first fucked him, filling his body in ways Connor had never contemplated. He can only marvel at how well Spike’s cock fits inside him, and the thought makes him moan softly.

“Touch yourself.” Spike’s voice is breathless and yet as strong as ever. “But don’t come ‘til I say you can.”

It’s only when Spike tells him not to come that Connor realizes just how close he is. He whimpers around Spike’s cock, and the sound seems to spur him on. He pushes a little deeper into Connor’s mouth, and on the next pass a little more still. It’s too deep, too fast, and Connor feels like he’s going to start gagging – he fights it back, he doesn’t _want_ to gag, he doesn’t want to ruin this, but he can’t—

The first burst of semen hitting the back of his throat catches him by surprise. Spike’s fingers, tangled in his hair, relax just enough for Connor to move back. The next pulses coat his tongue, and he moans at the bittersweet taste. Spike has fed him his come from his fingertips, but this way is much better. He sucks on Spike’s cock, drawing the last of his orgasm out of him, and can’t help feeling just a little bit disappointed when Spike starts pulling back. He follows Spike’s movement, holding on to his softening cock for a moment longer, and draws a quiet, dark chuckle from Spike. When he glances up, Spike’s eyes have never seemed darker.

“Come ‘ere,” he says, slurring the words a little.

Connor takes Spike’s proffered hands and stands, wavering a little until Spike pulls him close and steadies him. He wants to ask how he did. He really does. His mouth opens to let the words out, but he closes it again without a sound. A niggling fear has just surfaced. If Spike needed to take things into his own hands to finish, Connor can’t have been all that good. He doesn’t want to hear—

His train of thoughts derails when Spike kisses the side of his neck. Predictably, his body jerks back in reaction, but Spike doesn’t seem put off. He trails a series of kisses up to Connor’s jaw, and follows it to his mouth. A single flick of his tongue against Connor’s lips causes him to hum. 

“First you kill Vail like he’s some powerless little troll,” he says, one hand slipping between them to curl over Connor’s cock. “And you get out of there without a scratch on you.” 

His tight, slow strokes could be enough to draw pleasure and come out of Connor, but that quiet demand still hangs between them. Until Spike says otherwise, Connor will try to hold back. His hands grip Spike’s hips over his shirt. He would like to touch skin, but he just can’t let go.

“And then” Spike continues without missing a beat, “you give this to me.”

He covers Connor’s mouth with his own and at once his tongue presses in, pushing in deep as though searching for traces of himself. Connor allows him to fuck his mouth with his tongue, like he did moments ago with his cock, and the memory sends flames coursing down his body and straight to his groin.

Connor gasps, breaking the kiss. He feels lightheaded and leans his forehead against Spike’s shoulder. He closes his eyes so he won’t see Spike’s hand, still moving on his cock, bringing him that much closer to the edge with each passing second.

“My beautiful boy,” Spike all but purrs against his hair. “My perfect, beautiful boy. Do you know yet that I love you?”

Connor’s chest is so tight, he can barely breathe. He would like to make the words a demand, but they come out as a plea, his voice so quiet that anyone other than a vampire might not hear them. “Prove it?”

Spike’s left hand stills, just this side of too tight at the base of Connor’s cock. The right one caresses his cheek, leading Connor’s face up until their eyes meet. A quiet moan escapes from Connor’s throat, and he couldn’t say if it’s from Spike’s touch or from the look in his eyes, resolve and love melded together. The last time Connor saw this look, the eyes were a different color. 

Without thinking, he raises his hand. The gesture stops halfway to his itchy throat when Spike slinks to his knees in front of him, and instead his hand rests gently at the back of Spike’s head. He gasps when Spike engulfs his cock, the head hitting the back of his throat as though his mouth had been designed for this very thing. Blood rushes to Connor’s ears and pulses through his cock; his heart is beating fast, the sound louder than drums, urging him onward. His vision darkens, and for the time of a blink he’s not sure whether he’s about to come – or die.

He’s not sure he knows the difference anymore.

With lips and tongue and wordless encouragements, Spike teaches it back to him.

*

Long after Hamilton has left, long after the offices of Wolfram & Hart are bathed in the muted light that means everyone who has an actual life is long gone, Angel finally leaves his office and goes up to the penthouse.

He’s far enough from his boys’ apartment that he can’t hear them – he’s very sure about that; he spent the first two nights lying very still in bed and listening intently. Just the same, not being able to actually hear them is not the same as not _imagining_ he can hear them.

One thing that doesn’t change whether he’s souled or not – his imagination knows few limits.

As long as he stayed in his office, he managed to distract himself. Found something to read. Reread. Took notes about it. Wrote a memo to Harmony. Rewrote it using smaller words.

But now that he’s not forcing himself to think about something else, there’s nothing left for him but to think about them. About what they’re doing.

His treacherous body betrays him before he even reaches the penthouse. Studiously ignoring his hardening cock along with the scenes that play out in his mind, he waits for the doors to open and makes a beeline to the liquor cabinet. He practically inhales his first glass before pouring a second one. This time, he can actually taste the flavor of the fine alcohol. It doesn’t burn anywhere near as much as the hell that he knows waits for him.

He takes the full-again glass to the corner of the living room and stands by the window, watching the city down below. Listening.

This is where he’s the closest to them. 

He still can’t hear a thing.

But when he raises the glass to his lips, he could swear he hears a gasp – that quiet, muffled sound that Spike always make when Angel first pushes his cock inside him. That not-quite moan that Angel likes to think means they _fit_ ; and of course they do, Angelus molded William, carved his flesh along with his mind, made him his in such a way that, more than a hundred years later and when they’re both different men, it’s still all too easy to fall back into these old patterns. All too easy to slide into his body like Angel belongs inside him, like Spike was made for him. Drusilla being what she is, maybe he _was_ made for Angel.

Except that right now, someone else is enjoying him.

Angel takes another sip and tries to push down the image of Spike on his hands and knees, arching his back to meet Connor’s thrusts.

He has barely caught glimpses of Connor in the past week, but Spike has been around to annoy him. Angel is still surprised he was not given a complete report on what Connor is like in bed – not that he _wanted_ one, of course not, but this is Spike and keeping his mouth shut is not something he’s very good at. Sooner or later, Angel is sure, Spike will tell him much more than he needs to know. He’ll do it because he’s bored, because he wants to piss off Angel – or because he wants to get a more literal rise out of him. But he will. It’s only a matter of time. And until then, Angel only needs to use his nose. He doesn’t need to be told Connor has fucked Spike. He knows it.

And because he knows Spike, he knows the reverse is true as well. Angel would never let him, but he knows what it’d be like. He’s watched Spike fuck other people, he knows how he moves, knows he likes to see his lover’s faces, emotions and sensations as bare as their bodies. He knows – and when he thinks of Spike and Connor, he can't help but be grateful for it – that Spike takes care of those who offer him their bodies along with their hearts.

Is he taking care of Connor, right now? Is he giving him the pleasure Connor ought to have at last with his hands, mouth and cock? Is he fucking Connor so hard that—

Angel shudders. Was that a shout?

Biting down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a moan, he stumbles to his room, fingers already at his fly.

He hasn’t changed the sheets since the night both his boys were on his bed, but the scent of his come has long since drowned theirs.

*

The night has been long and quite enjoyable. Spike had hopes for his morning as well. But when he wakes up, he finds himself, yet again, alone in bed. He’s going to have to teach his boy that he doesn’t like waking up alone. It shouldn’t be too hard to make him understand that; he’s a fast learner.

Grinning to himself at the memory of how well Connor takes directions, Spike throws pants on and hunts him down. Predictably, the boy is in front of his video game. He spares a quick smile at Spike but doesn’t stop playing. Right, then. Change of plans. Spike plops himself on the sofa next to Connor and considers his options. Watching him play? Boring after two minutes. Asking for a turn? Connor is too damn good at this thing and he won’t relinquish the game controller. Stealing it from him? That could be fun. In the end, though, distracting him seems like the best idea.

“Call your mum.”

A flicker of Connor’s eyes and an absentminded, “What?” aren’t quite enough yet.

“Pick up the phone and call Colleen.”

Connor pauses the game and turns a confused look to Spike. “Huh?”

Spike heaves a sigh and takes the controller from Connor. He lets go easily enough. “Your mum,” he says again, resuming the game. “She’s gotta be worried. Call her.”

He goes through an entire level without Connor uttering a word, but he can feel his gaze on him, can hear the questions he’s not asking. Pausing the game again, he looks at him, rolling his eyes.

“What? I told her I’d remind you to call her.”

Connor shrugs. He’s obviously uncomfortable. He hasn’t mentioned his parents since they arrived in LA. “Why would you?”

Abandoning the game, Spike shifts on the sofa, facing Connor fully. “Why wouldn’t I? She was nice to me. Asked how we met.”

Dark eyes consider him coolly. Why so dark, Spike wonders. Connor doesn’t have a reason to be mad at _her_ , does he?

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. That we first met here, and then I went looking for you.”

“And what did she say?”

The sofa is wide enough that Spike can crawl on hands and knees toward Connor, pushing him back until he lies down. He kisses Connor’s cheek, then his eyebrow. He can just barely feel the slight roughness left on his skin. In a couple more weeks, the scars will be gone for good.

“She asked if you got those scars coming out on campus,” he murmurs, and continues trailing kisses over Connor’s face

Connor runs his hands up and down Spike’s back. His fingertips were nowhere near as gentle on the game controller – and the game was nowhere near as interesting as this one. One kiss at a time, Spike makes his way across Connor’s jaw then down his neck. Connor’s fingers clench, and as short as his fingernails are they still manage to dig into Spike’s skin when he turns his head, finding Spike’s mouth with his own. 

He does little more than press a quick peck to Spike’s lips before saying, “You never did tell me about Darla.”

As mood killers go, this is a fine one. Spike pushes away and sits up, picking up controller and restarting the game. “Call your mum,” he says again.

But Connor won’t let it go. The boy is much too stubborn for his own good. “Will you?” he insists, his voice growing colder now.

Spike grinds his teeth. Maybe he should have gone for another option, this is not turning out all that well. “Call her? No I won’t. She’s your mum not mine.”

“Spike.” Connor’s hand closes on his arm and squeezes once. “Will you tell me about Darla?”

Spike grimaces as he turns to meet Connor’s eyes. He doubts Connor would care to hear about anything he has to say about Darla. “I’m not the best person for that,” he says diffidently. “She and I… we didn’t exactly like each other.”

A slight smile flutters on Connor’s lips. “Well at least that’s one good thing. You didn’t sleep with both my parents. That would have been majorly…” 

Spike looks back at the television, trying not to blink. Connor’s voice trails off, and Spike knows he’s given himself away. When did Connor learn to read him that well?

“Oh. My. God.” 

Connor stands and takes two steps away before turning back to Spike. His hands are clenched into fists and his scent holds the sour bitterness of anger. It occurs to Spike that if it were Angel in front of him now, he’d already be bleeding. He’d prefer that to the look of pure betrayal on Connor’s face.

“You just said you didn’t even like her!”

It was one thing for Connor to be upset about Spike sleeping with Angel. But for him to be mad about Darla, about events that happened decades earlier and that, all things considered, aren’t particularly memorable… Connor is going to have to accept Spike’s past, he thinks, his mood darkening. Or he’ll have to learn not to ask stupid questions. 

“What does liking anyone has to do with fucking them?” he says, his voice as cold and cutting as a steel blade.

“I can’t believe you!” 

Connor spits the words out and glowers at him. He wasn’t even this upset when they talked about Angel, was he? So why now? The answer comes in his next words.

“Is there anyone Angel loved that you didn’t fuck?”

The first thing that comes to Spike’s mind, he refuses to voice. He doesn’t actually _know_ that Angel – or Angelus, for that matter – didn’t love Darla, not the way Connor means it. That’s only what Spike believes, and Connor certainly doesn’t need to know it. No child needs to hear any such thing.

The second thought is just as cruel. Probably more. This one, he’s too annoyed to catch before it has spilled like acid between him and Connor. Before it’s too late to take it back. 

“Does Cordelia count?”

Connor’s eyes widen. In the time of a blink, his scent shifts, the anger giving way to guilt and pain. Three seconds later, the front door bangs shut behind him. Spike throws the game controller across the room and curses a blue streak. 

He wishes he didn’t know where Connor is going.

*

Connor is halfway down the corridor before he realizes where he’s going. He stops at once, glancing back toward the apartment. He’d almost expect Spike to be there, coming after him, but it’s a good thing the door is still closed. Connor doesn’t have a stake, he doesn’t have shoes on – hell, he’s not even wearing a shirt – but if Spike came to him _now_ he’d find a way to make him bleed.

Why does he always end up wanting to hurt the people he loves?

Since he can’t go back, there isn’t anywhere else to go but forward. Feeling much too self-conscious, he takes slow steps to the door and knocks twice. As he waits for an answer, he tries to figure out what he’ll tell his father. He can’t begin to imagine himself explaining what Spike said to upset him this much. Can’t fathom saying her name, not to Angel, not when things have been so much better between them.

Seconds pass. A minute. Two. Connor knocks again. There’s still no answer.

Realizing that Angel must be down in his office, Connor sighs. He can’t go down there half dressed. And he still can’t go back. Lacking options, he tries the door. How mad would Angel be if he broke in? Slipping into the hotel was much easier than—

Or maybe not. The door is open.

He walks in and closes the door behind him. He looks around, still half hoping to find Angel there.

“Dad?” he calls out, but soon has to admit that Angel isn’t there.

Hands in his pockets, he walks around the living room, remembering the first time he was there. He was only half dressed then too, and just as hurt, although the bruises were very different.

He tiptoes toward the bedroom, calling out Angel’s name, still with no answer. The bed is made, the corners tight and neat. The door to the master bath is closed, as is the closet. The room looks ready for a photoshoot about successful CEOs and their private lives – or lack thereof. The only sign that anyone actually lives there is the glass on the night table, with just a drop of gold at the bottom. That, and Angel’s scent is overwhelming. Connor tries not to breathe too deeply and walks over to the closet. Opening it, he pulls out the first shirt he lays a hand on and returns to the living room. The shirt is black; it suits his mood quite well.

As he slips it on, he walks again around the living room, stopping in front of the phone. He picks it up and dials mindlessly. He has known the number since he was four. The tone rings three times before someone picks up. Connor breathes again when he hears her voice.

“Hi Mom.”

“Connor! I was worried!”

He could have told as much from her voice. Forcing himself to smile so she’ll hear he’s OK, he says, “No reason to be. I just didn’t have phone service until today. You’re my first call.”

She used to be able to tell at once when he was lying. It seems he got the ability to lie convincingly back along with his memories.

“And how are you?” she asks, more concern crammed in the words than he would have expected.

“Fine,” he says breezily. “How’s everyone? Did Erin leave for camp yet?”

“Connor.” She pauses, and asks again, “How _are_ you?”

So maybe he can lie better, but she still knows him much too well. Curling down on the sofa, he sighs.

“Right now? Feeling a bit betrayed to tell the truth.”

“Oh, honey…” If she were there, he knows she’d be running her fingers in his hair, right about now. He has a feeling Angel would do the same thing. “He didn’t want to hurt you.”

It takes him a couple of seconds to remember they’re not talking about the same person. It doesn’t matter, though.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Neither did I. But I can’t…” He lets out a shaky breath. “This is who I am. Now that I know, I can’t pretend it’s not.”

“Of course not, honey. No one is asking you to. It’s just all new for him, too. But you know he loves you, don’t you?”

Again, it’s not Lawrence’s face that flashes through Connor’s mind.

“I know,” he all but whispers, before adding a little louder, “I love you, Mom. I’ve gotta go now.”

“So soon?” 

She sounds disappointed, and Connor feels a little guilty.

“I’ll call back soon, all right? I promise.”

“OK. Take care of you. And say hi to William from me.”

Promising he will, Connor says goodbye and hangs up the phone. Two minutes later, he walks back into his apartment, feeling much calmer than when he left. Arms crossed over his chest, he steps around the remains of what was once a video game remote control and walks toward the sofa. 

Spike is sitting there, watching TV. His eyes flicker to Connor and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Nice shirt,” he says blandly.

Connor absently smoothes his hands down the front of his shirt. “My mom says hi.”

Spike’s eyebrow rises briefly. “Does she? How ‘bout your father? What does _he_ say?”

“I don’t know.” Connor shrugs and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. “Does it matter?”

A press of his thumb on the TV remote is Spike’s only answer. The television shuts off, and in the silence all Connor can hear is his own heartbeat. He watches Spike for a few seconds, wondering what hides behind his expressionless gaze.

Swallowing hard, he finally pushes the words out. “I’m sor—”

Before he can finish, Spike jumps off the sofa. Connor’s first instinct is to raise his hands defensively, but a half second of hesitation - Spike wouldn't hurt him - is enough. Spike’s arms close around him and draw him tight against his body. His mouth crashes on Connor’s for a harsh but brief kiss.

“You’ve got no reason to be,” he says, his voice rough and contrite. “’Should have told you what you wanted to hear and cut the snark.”

Heaving a relieved sigh, Connor burrows deeper into Spike’s arms. “But that’s the thing,” he mutters. “I don’t know what I want to hear. I just…” 

There are few things that Connor hasn’t told Spike about yet. He’s not sure he ever will tell him about Holtz. 

“I was told about her. About what she was. What she did. And Angel…”

The word catches in his throat. It wasn’t _Angel_ who told him about Darla, and he doesn’t want to think about Angelus, not now. 

“Well, he didn’t say much, really. Just that she died so I could live. But I saw her.” He pulls back so he can see Spike’s eyes – see if Spike believes him. “I talked to her. But I must have made it up. She’s dead so she couldn’t be there, could she?”

Spike’s thumbs draw small circles over his back. He frowns lightly and tilts his head, finally shrugging. “I don’t know, luv. I’ve seen some damn strange things. Not six months ago I was a ghost myself. And if two vamps made a perfect child like you, what else is possible? Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

Connor can’t say a word. If he tried, he’d laugh at how ridiculous it is for Spike to call him perfect. He just shakes his head.

“Suppose I showed you a picture of her,” Spike says, now running his fingers at the nape of Connor’s neck. “How much would it hurt if the woman you saw wasn’t her?”

Connor bites his bottom lip and prepares to lie. Spike wouldn't understand. Or maybe he would. Connor isn't sure what would be worse.

“I sort of already think it wasn’t her, so I don’t know that it _would_ hurt. I guess I’d be a little disappointed maybe.”

Spike’s hand slips up through Connor’s hair, then slides to cup his cheek. “No more than a little?” he asks, his eyes searching Connor as though looking for the truth. “Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“OK then. Let’s go.”

*

Angel is just hanging up the phone, having confirmed his lunch reservation with Senator Brucker, when his office doors swing wide open without so much as a knock. Spike walks in first, striding in, as always, as though he owns the place. Behind him, Connor follows with more reserve, although he casts a quick smile at Angel. 

Ignoring the more obnoxious of the two, Angel smiles right back. “Hey. Nice to…” He loses his words when Spike, who has walked up to his desk, starts opening his drawers and peering in. He catches his wrist and stops him short. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

Pulling free, Spike rolls his eyes at him. “I can’t believe you don’t even have paper.” Walking back to the door, he presses a kiss to Connor’s cheek on his way there. “You stay put, luv. I’ll be right back.”

“What’s going on?” Angel asks, his frown softening as it turns to Connor.

Hands buried deep in his pockets, Connor glances back at the door through which Spike just disappeared. “I’m not sure,” he says, taking slow steps toward Angel. “We were talking and then out of the blue he dragged me down here.”

Somehow, that’s easy to believe. Spike can be… mercurial. In that, he and Connor are all too similar. Figuring that Spike will explain himself sooner or later, Angel decides to take advantage of a precious and too rare moment alone with his son. The prepared question about the internship disappears, however, when he notices what Connor is wearing. 

He blinks, wondering if he’s imagining things. “Is that my shirt?”

Connor looks down at himself. “Yeah. I…” He grimaces as he looks up again. “Sorry?”

Angel waves a dismissive hand. “It’s OK, it looks good on—” He stops himself when a long-gone conversation echoes through his mind. He can practically see the bars of the cage between him and Connor, and tightens his hands on the armrests of his chair so he won’t try to reach for them. Clearing his throat, he asks, “You were in my apartment?”

Another grimace. Another apology. “Sorry. Just for a little while. You never lock your door?”

It sounds like a change of subject if Angel ever heard one. He lets it pass – for now. “I usually take the elevator down here so I never think of locking the door.”

Connor nods then takes a few steps toward the windows before coming back, pacing slowly through the room, walking into the sunlight and out again like he's not sure if he prefers the light or the shadows. Angel understands that all too well. 

“So how’s the internship going?” he asks, filling the silence.

“It’s OK,” Connor replies with a light shrug. “They have me delivering mail so far. Absolutely thrilling.”

Angel’s eyes widen at the mention of mail. He remembers all too well Numero Cinco – remembers how that turned out, too. “Well if you don’t like it I could talk to—”

Connor stops him with a shake of his head and a thin smile. “Don’t. Honestly. I’ve already got the other interns glaring at me and wondering how I got such a good spot while they’re stuck in the basement filing paperwork or something. It’s fine.”

A little disappointed, Angel leans back in his chair and picks up a pen. Maybe he could call anyway, be discreet about it…

“If you change your mind,” he says, and lets the offer hang in the air. “Or if you want to work here…” He sounds much too hopeful to his own ears, but he can’t help finishing, “I could use the help.”

Connor’s smile broadens. “Help doing what? Fetching you blood? Or hot wings, maybe?”

“Hot wings?” Angel repeats, perplexed.

“Do you even eat?” Connor tilts his head as he considers him. “Spike does all the time but I don’t remember ever seeing you eat.”

“Not usually, but…” Things click into place and Angel doesn’t like one bit the picture he’s getting. “Wait. You fetch food for Spike?”

He ends the question with a glare at the vampire in question, who just entered the office with a large sheet of paper in his hands. 

Connor glances back at him and grins. “More like he steals mine.”

“It’s called sharing, pet,” Spike says with a slight snort. “Your father was never too good at it either.” He places the sheet of paper in front of Angel with a flourish and gives him an expectant look. “There you go. Draw.”

Wondering where Spike found this heavy drawing paper, Angel runs two fingers across it and turns a slight frown at him. “Draw what?” he asks, not sure where this is all going.

Spike’s voice is as expressionless as his face when he says a single word. “Darla.”

For a couple of seconds, Angel stares at him, waiting for the punch line. When Spike doesn’t add anything, he scowls at him. “If that’s another of your—”

“He wants to know what his mum looked like,” Spike cuts in. As easily as though he had done it hundreds of times, he slides his arm at Connor’s waist. His raised eyebrow almost dares Angel to say anything about it. “Unless you’ve got a picture in your wallet?” he adds with a sneer. “No, I didn’t think so. Now draw.”

Angel looks at Connor for confirmation, and gets it in the form of a shallow, almost embarrassed nod. If that’s what Connor wants…

Pulling a pencil from his drawer, he places the sharp point on the paper – but feels unnerved suddenly by the two pairs of eyes watching him too closely.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “Go sit down or something. Give me a moment, all right?”

Very quickly, he realizes that his ‘or something’ was much too vague. Spike drags Connor to the sofa and draws him to sit on his lap. Connor protests, laughing weakly, and slides off to sit next to him. Spike’s arms weave around him, pulling him close enough that he can whisper in his ear. Angel drops his gaze to the paper in front of him and tries not to listen – and not to look. 

The pencil starts moving over the paper, leaving first faint lines, then darker ones, but his eyes keep being pulled back to them. Spike’s hands are roaming, and so is his mouth, traveling over Connor’s face and temple, slowly moving down his neck. Connor jumps at that, and for a brief instant, his eyes meet Angel’s across the room. Color creeps in his cheeks and he captures Spike’s hands in his own, stopping him. Angel can’t see Spike’s expression, but he can imagine his smugness. 

He forces himself to focus on the drawing in front of him and works faster, defining Darla’s pregnant body in broad strokes and spending more time on her face. She wasn’t happy, the night she said their son was the one good thing they had ever done together. She was right, though, and she was beautiful.

A last line, smudged with his fingertip, changes her mouth just enough that she appears to be smiling. Angel puts down the pencil and looks at Darla. He wishes she could have seen Connor today. Glancing up, he grimaces. Come to think of it, maybe it’s better that she’s not there to watch Spike attempt to get in Connor’s pants right in front of her. He clears his throat and reminds them they’re not alone.

“There you go,” he says, walking over to the sofa. 

Connor leans forward, freeing himself from Spike’s embrace to take the drawing Angel is handing him. His hands start shaking almost at once. When his eyes close tight, when his scent turns from mild arousal to sheer misery, Angel’s pleasure at being able to give him what he wanted vanishes, replaced by confusion. 

“Not her?” Spike asks. 

His hand is running up and down Connor’s back in a motion that is pure comfort. Angel crosses his arms and tries not to scowl.

“Yeah. It was her,” Connor says very softly. Standing, he hands the drawing back to Angel, though he doesn’t meet his gaze. “I need some air,” he mumbles. “I’m going for a walk.”

Spike stands at once, trying to hold him back. “Not alone,” he says. “At nightfall we—”

But Connor has already pulled away. He’s already at the door. Already gone.

Spike curses and goes after him. Angel wants to do the same, but he suspects it’d be useless. Connor is upset. That's all too familiar. He wants to be alone. Standing in his way now wouldn’t help anything.

That doesn’t mean Angel will let him walk through LA on his own. 

Returning to his desk, he drops the drawing on it and picks up the phone. By the time Spike returns, looking equally worried and annoyed, Angel is just about done ordering a security detail for Connor’s protection. He hopes they’ll have enough sense to stay out of sight, he thinks as he watches Spike pour two glasses of scotch.

Going to Spike, he takes a glass from him and sits on the sofa. “What was that all about then?” he asks after taking a small sip.

Spike glances at the closed door before sitting next to Angel with a muffled sigh. “I’m not sure,” he mutters. “He asked about his mum again. Said he’d seen her but wasn’t sure it was her so I thought—” 

“He can’t have,” Angel cuts in. “She died the night he was born.”

Spike frowns at him over his glass and empties it in one long swallow. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he eyes Angel’s still mostly-full glass. “Just repeating what he told me. And you heard him, he said it was her he saw.”

The alcohol burns Angel’s throat as it goes down; the words burn even more when they come up. “How is he?” he asks gruffly, resenting that he has to ask but needing to.

Spike rests his head on the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. He looks tired – no, not tired. Guilty. “Until this morning I’d have said better,” he says very quietly. “I thought I knew how to help and instead…” A twisted smile pulls at his lips. “I’m beginning to see why you tried to erase his memories.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” Angel wishes he didn’t sound like he’s making excuses. He doesn’t need Spike to understand, or even approve. He knows he did the right thing, as difficult as it was. Connor told him he did. And still… “He was just… broken.”

Whatever Spike hears in his words, it causes him to turn his head toward Angel and open his eyes again. “But he’s not broken anymore,” he says, his voice stronger now. “Just has some rough patches. What teenager doesn’t? He’ll be fine.”

The promise doesn’t need to be voiced. Spike will make sure that Connor is fine. He’ll do whatever he needs to do – like Angel did. It dawns on Angel at that moment that it truly is not a game for Spike. 

He loves Connor. He really does.

Leaning in toward him, Angel presses a kiss at the corner of his mouth, startling Spike enough that he jerks back. His wide eyes are asking for an explanation. Angel stands, turning his back on him as he gives him one.

“Thank you. For taking care of him.”

Spike doesn’t reply, which is just as well. Leaving his glass on the conference table, Angel goes to his desk to pick up his jacket. Darla looks up at him from the drawing. She knows. She always did. That's why she couldn't stand Spike.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, still not looking at Spike as he walks to the elevator. “Security will call to say where he is. I should be back by then but if not—”

“Got it.”

Angel steps into the elevator and turns around. Spike is still sitting on the sofa, his eyebrows drawn into a light frown.

“Thank you,” Angel says again, drawing a smirk from him.

“Twice in a day. Careful, I’m gonna start thinking you mean it.”

The elevator doors close before Angel can call him an idiot.

*

Twelve minutes after sunset, Spike is walking down a small, dark alley, looking around him, searching. Like Angel promised, the watchdogs who kept an eye on Connor all afternoon called to say where he was. This is the place, and still Spike can’t find him.

It’s the sound of his name, no louder than a breath, that makes him look up. In seconds, he climbs the building and reaches the roof. He doesn’t like to see Connor sitting on the low safety wall that borders the roof, his legs dangling in the air. The silly boy could fall. Much too easily. He probably – hopefully – wouldn’t get hurt too badly but still, Spike doesn’t like it.

Standing just behind him, Spike holds out his hand to Connor’s side. Connor turns his head to look at it, but he doesn’t take it.

“Ready to go home, pet?”

Without a word, Connor looks back down at the alley, which Spike takes as his answer. Holding back a mutter about finding a safer place, he sits down sideways on the wall, one foot firmly set on the roof, his other leg folded in front of him.

“How did you know where I was?” Connor asks.

Spike lights up a cigarette and answers before taking a first drag. “You think Angel would let you go out alone without setting someone on your tail?” 

He turns his face back toward the roof to blow the smoke away from Connor. Even so, from the corner of his eye, he catches the flicker of a smile. He expects Connor to comment on Angel’s mother-hen tendencies, but there’s only silence between them. Or rather, as much silence as there can be in a city like Los Angeles. The alley is deserted, quiet, but just a street away, sounds are bubbling; music, a dancing club, patrons that are set on having a good time. Saturday night. Life.

So what on earth are they doing, sitting on this roof?

He smokes half a cigarette while waiting for Connor to tell him what’s going on in his mind, but it soon becomes clear that, if he wants answers, he’s going to have to ask for them. Like in the beginning. Have they fallen back to that?

“Why here?” he finally asks.

Connor shrugs. “Why not?”

As stubborn as his father, Spike thinks. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue, like blood gone rancid. “You’ve been here for hours,” he says. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t pick this place.”

Silence again. As Spike tries to figure out a different angle of attack – tries to decide if he ought to bring up Darla’s name – the sound of quiet steps draws his attention to Angel as he comes to them. Spike berates himself for not noticing that he came up to the roof. His annoyance only accentuates when he sees that Connor doesn’t look back, nor does he appear surprised in the slightest. He must have seen Angel in the alley.

“Thought you were busy,” Spike says, keeping the exasperation from his words but not from the hard look he gives Angel. Didn’t the bastard trust him to take care of this?

Angel comes to stand just behind the wall on the other side of Connor. Hands in his pockets, he could almost look relaxed. There’s a stiffness to his shoulders, though, that shouts he doesn’t like to see Connor sitting there any more than Spike does.

“Things went better than I expected,” he says his gaze fixed on the alley, like Connor’s. “Not everyone liked Vail, it seems. I’ve been told my son is a worthy successor to Angelus.”

Connor flinches at the words, and Spike, for all the good that it does, glares at Angel. Does he _have_ to upset Connor even more than he already is?

“It was here, wasn’t it?” Connor asks suddenly.

Spike isn’t sure whom the question is addressed to. Before he can ask, Angel nods.

“Right over there,” he says, pointing. “Beneath that light.”

Spike feels confused. He looks at the light, then at Angel, his gaze ending on Connor. “What was here?”

Connor shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, so quietly that Spike reads the word on his lips more than he hears it.

Spike starts looking up, but already Angel is answering. “Connor was born here.”

The statement runs twice through Spike’s mind before all the dots connect. Frowning slightly, he looks down at the alley. He knew there was a reason Connor came here.

He ought to say something, he thinks, but what? He’s not going to say he’s sorry Darla died, not when he’s already told Connor that he didn’t like her all that much. Connor would call him a liar, and with good reason. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he flicks the butt back to the roof and lets smoke rise between him and Connor.

“Worse places to die, I guess,” he says gruffly. “Maybe next time you can bring flowers.”

Connor closes his eyes again. His scent holds the same unhappiness as it did in Angel’s office when he saw the drawing. Spike grimaces. Not the right words, then. He rests a hand on Connor’s knee and tries to figure out how to make things better. Inspiration is sorely lacking.

Behind Connor, Angel gives Spike an exasperated look. “Why don’t you go find something to kill?” he says darkly.

Spike frowns at him, ready to protest, but to his surprise Angel’s expression turns pleading. Does he know how to fix this, like he knew what to say – was it just a week ago? – when Connor’s other father showed himself less than perfect? 

Looking back at Connor, Spike leans in and rests his chin on his boy’s shoulder. He wishes he could help, but he doesn’t think he can, not at that moment, and as much as it irks him to have to yield the floor to Angel, he loves Connor enough to do what’s best for him. 

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips just an inch from Connor’s ear, then kisses his cheek. 

Connor turns his head toward him and the next kiss lands on his lips, although he doesn’t reciprocate nor reply in words. When his gaze returns to the alley, Spike stands.

“I’ll come back in a little while,” he announces, unsure who the words are meant for – unsure if either of them even hears him.

He has no reason to feel jealous, he tells himself as he walks away, already lighting another cigarette. He should be glad that someone can help Connor, even if it’s not him. Should be glad that Angel cares enough to help someone. Even if it’s not him.

And still… He looks back before jumping down to the next, lower roof. Angel has sat down, facing toward the roof, his shoulder to Connor’s. Spike is taken by the sudden urge to go back and claim as loudly as he can that Connor is his boy. _His_.

The only thing that stops him is the realization that it’s a lie. He knows Connor is not his. He’s known since the first time he heard Angel call Connor his son.

*

As Spike walks away, Connor can still feel the touch of his lips, can still hear his words. Darla couldn’t touch him, but she said those same words, and in the end it wasn’t enough for Connor. Has he learned his lesson, he wonders. Has he learned it well enough not to make the same mistakes again?

“When did you see your mother?”

The words are so quiet, they barely disturb the silence. Connor remembers a time when Angel being around him was enough to make his skin crawl, enough to fill his mind with images of blood and words of hate. He remembers searching – and finding – lies and tricks in every word, every inflection of his voice. Not anymore. _This_ lesson, at least, he learned.

“Spike told you?” he says, delaying the moment when he’ll need to answer. He snorts quietly. “Of course Spike told you. Is there anything he doesn’t tell you?”

A small part of him would like to be bitter, would like to feel betrayed – easier to be betrayed than to be the traitor. It would be so simple to be upset that Spike and Angel are close. So simple to let himself be angry. Too simple.

“There’s _a lot_ he doesn’t tell me,” Angel says. “Thankfully. Though I’m sure he’d enjoy oversharing.”

There’s something in Angel’s voice, something that Connor can’t quite make out. He turns his face toward him, wanting to know if it’s a grimace or a smile pulling at his lips. He’s startled to find that Angel is facing him fully, his expression completely blank.

“Darla?” Angel says, still as quietly. “When did you see her?”

Of their own accord, Connor’s eyes turn away again, and again find that spot on the asphalt where he was born. The ashes must have washed away long ago, but Connor can’t help wondering if he’d be able to smell her if he went down to the street and laid close to the ground where she died. If he’d feel her presence. Even see her again, maybe.

He knows he won’t. He wishes he could. Wishes he could tell her—

“There was… a girl.” The words come out slowly, haltingly. Connor’s throat feels raw already, as though he’d been shouting. He presses on anyway. “Before Jasmine was born. Darla tried to save her. The girl, I mean. Save her from me.”

It’s only when Angel’s fingertips brush against his cheek that Connor realizes he’s crying. Wiping his cheeks furiously, he turns away, would even slide further back on the wall, jump down to the street – flee – but Angel’s arm presses across his collarbone, his hand curling to settle at the back of Connor’s head. Connor could feel trapped, but he suddenly doesn’t want to flee anymore.

“Did you…” Angel starts, but stops almost at once. It’s all too easy to guess what he was about to ask.

“Kill her?” Connor finishes for him. He closes his eyes and unconsciously leans back into Angel’s hand. “I didn’t hold the knife,” he whispers, “but I might as well have. I didn’t stop—” One day, he’ll be able to say Cordelia’s name without feeling like shards of glass are tearing his heart to pieces. “- _her_. And I didn’t stop Jasmine. Not until it was too late.”

Angel’s fingers clench on Connor’s hair, tugging almost enough to hurt before releasing. “We all do things we regret, son. All we can do is apologize. Try to make up for our mistakes. Try not to repeat them, too.”

As Angel falls silent, Connor keeps his eyes shut tight and allows himself to open the box where he hides everything he regrets. There are too many things in there, and he doesn’t dare look inside for too long.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“What for?”

He shrugs. There’s an answer on the tip of his tongue, coffin-shaped and heavy as lead, but he can’t manage to put it in words. “Too many things.”

Angel’s hand ruffles his hair. “Pick one,” he says. “Just one for now. Let it go.”

When Connor opens his eyes, they return once more to that spot where Darla died. He wishes he could think of her as his mother, but it’s another face that pops up in his mind when he thinks ‘Mom’. One day, maybe, he’ll figure out a way to honor Darla’s sacrifice. In the meantime, he can try to release part of the guilt that has been weighing him down for too long already.

He swallows hard and looks at Angel, willing him to see he means this. He really does. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said you didn’t kill Holtz.”

Angel lets out a shaky breath. He nods shallowly. “You were mourning,” he says.

“I was.” 

Mourning, yes, but not only that, Connor thinks. Angry, too. Confused. And above all, scared. Scared that Angel was nothing like what Holtz had told him. Scared that if he listened too closely, he’d hear the truth in Angel’s voice. Scared that he’d never be able to kill him.

And he couldn’t, could he? He’s glad he couldn’t, even if the alternative was beyond words. Back on Quor-toth, he used to dream of the day he’d kill Angel. He knows, now, that killing him would have been close enough to killing himself as to make no difference.

“All the people I love end up dying,” he says after while. “Maybe I should get away from Spike. And you.”

Angel’s hold on him tightens at once. “That’s not happening.”

A small smile pierces on Connor’s lips. 

For a long moment, he remains quiet, but his thoughts eventually turn back to why he came here. “Tell me about her,” he asks.

After a moment of hesitation, Angel does, with soft words that come out slowly. He tells Connor about Darla’s pregnancy. Little things she said. How she looked when she talked about her baby – about him. It’s not what Connor expected, but it’s what he wanted. What he needed. He knows these words don’t paint a complete picture of who Darla was, but that’s all right. He already knows the rest. Already knows that, whatever she did during her life, she redeemed herself in her death.

When Angel stops, Connor thanks him and turns around, now facing away from the alley. Angel’s hand falls away. 

Only a handful of seconds pass before Spike appears. It’s not a coincidence; he can’t have been very far. He approaches and holds his hand out to Connor, like he did earlier. This time, Connor takes it, and lets Spike pull him to his feet.

“Ready to go home, luv?”

Connor nods, then looks at Angel, who is still sitting on the wall and watching them – watching their linked hands, Connor realizes. He holds out his free hand to Angel, getting a surprised look in reply. After a second of hesitation, Angel takes his hand, and Connor helps him up. He squeezes Angel’s hand once before releasing it.

“Let’s go.”

*

When they reach the alley, Angel starts going left; the closest street is only a few yards away. Spike however is his usual contrary self, and he tugs Connor right. Toward the place where he was born.

“The car is just—”

Spike glances back at him. “Give us a minute.”

Angel stops and clenches his teeth as he watches them walk there. Spike pulls something from his pocket, but Angel can’t see what it is. All he can see is Connor, crouching to touch the asphalt. When he stands again, he leans against Spike’s shoulder. Moments later, they come back toward him. Angel looks behind them. He can just make out the rose laid out on the ground, a splash of red like blood splattered on black.

The two of them climb into the back of the Porsche while Angel takes the wheel. When he glances at the rearview mirror, Connor is alone in that backseat. It feels wrong, somehow. He seems too small, there, too young. At the next light, Angel turns back. Spike’s arm is around Connor; Connor’s around him. Spike gives Angel a hard look, and while the “what are you going to do about it, then?” is silent, Angel hears it loud and clear. Snorting quietly, Angel looks back at the road. Spike thinks he knows him – and maybe he does – but when he’s wrong, he’s _really_ wrong.

Enough has been said for now, and they’re silent all the way back to the cage they call home. It’s only when Connor enters the apartment, Spike just a step on his heels, that Angel realizes his place is not in there with them. As much as he wants to go in and make sure Connor is OK, it’s not his role – not right now.

“Spike. A word.”

Frowning, Spike looks back at him. Angel holds his gaze for an instant before turning away and walking down the corridor. He hears the door click shut, then quiet steps. Looking back, he finds Spike just a couple of feet from him, his wariness badly hidden behind the usual cocky façade.

“Knew you’d end up blaming it on me,” he says with a slight sneer.

Angel blinks. “Blame what on you?”

Spike doesn’t reply, but he glances back toward the closed door. Angel follows his gaze before looking back at him.

“Did you tell him about Darla?”

“Had nothing to say,” Spike replies with a shake of his head. “Nothing he would have liked to hear. Maybe if I’d lied—”

“No,” Angel cuts in, louder than he meant to. “Don’t lie to him. Too many people lied to him already.”

It’s obvious that Spike is surprised, obvious he wants to ask questions, but Angel doesn’t want to reply now. He wants to finish what he has to say before Connor comes looking for Spike. Getting closer to him, he drops his voice so prying ears won’t catch his words.

“Listen, don’t take him out again tonight, all right? Stay in. Just…” He finishes with gritted teeth. “Take care of him.”

Spike’s eyes widen and he snickers. “Did you just ask me to go and fuck your boy? Not that I don’t want to, I just want to make sure—”

With a growl, Angel grabs the back of Spike’s neck and shakes him lightly. “I did _not_ tell you to fuck him. I said take care of him. Remind him…” Angel sighs, his annoyance draining right out of him. “Remind him he’s loved.”

His hand slips up into Spike’s hair, his fingers spreading through gelled strands. Sometimes, he misses William’s curls, always a bit too long and too unruly, perfect when his fingers tangled around them. He doesn’t pull – he doesn’t, does he? – but Spike steps forward until they’re toe to toe.

“He _knows_ he’s loved,” Spike says very quietly. 

Angel swallows around the lump in his throat and nods. “Good. He should.”

Spike’s lips are a little bit chapped against his, as though he’s been biting down on them. It’s not a kiss, Angel tells himself. Just a touch, like his fingers in Spike’s hair. He pulls back and lets go of him, looking away as he clears his throat. 

“Take care of him,” he says again as he starts walking toward his penthouse.

Spike’s words drift after him. “Was that for me or for him?”

Angel pretends he didn’t hear.

*

Spike is wary when he enters the apartment and finds Connor leaning back against the wall just a foot to the right of the door. Much too late, he wonders if Connor could hear them despite the closed door and quiet words. He shuts the door and tries to think of something to say, but already Connor is pushing away from the wall and stepping up to him, already he’s sliding his arms beneath Spike’s duster and around him, already he’s pressing his face to Spike’s neck.

Swallowing a relieved sigh, Spike wraps his arms around him.

“You OK?” he asks quietly.

Connor makes a soft humming sound that could be a yes. He raises his head and brushes his lips against Spike’s before flicking his tongue against them.

“He just kissed you, didn’t he?”

Spike has just a second to be glad his heartbeat can’t jump and give him away before Connor adds, “Remember, no lying.”

Which answers quite well the question of how much he heard. Still wary, Spike presses a gentle kiss to Connor’s mouth.

“ _You_ just kissed me,” he says, expecting to be punched, or at least sneered at.

Instead, Connor returns his face to the crook of Spike’s neck and tightens his arms around him. He doesn’t say a word, just holds on to Spike as though he’s afraid Spike will pull away.

Spike wouldn’t let go, not for anything.

He rubs small circles at the small of Connor’s back, trying to soothe him. After a little while, Connor starts to relax against him.

“Next time you want to talk about your mum,” Spike starts, and although he’s practiced the words in his head when Angel chased him from that damn roof, they sound hesitant and awkward. He tries another way. “I mean, if there’s anything you want to talk about…” It still sounds awful. He growls quietly, frustrated at not finding the right words. “You know I love you, right?”

Connor looks up at him, and the soft, barely there smile that touches his lips makes Spike want to kiss him again – makes him want to do a lot more than kissing, in fact.

“I do know I’m loved,” he murmurs. “Do you?”

He rests a gentle hand on Spike’s cheek and kisses him again, this time slipping his tongue past Spike’s lips to caress his palate. Spike’s tongue presses back against his, following it back into his mouth. Drawing Connor with him, Spike takes a step in the approximate direction of their bedroom. Then a second.

On the third step, Connor’s stomach growls.

Loudly.

Connor’s muffled chuckle ends the kiss. He gives Spike a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

Spike answers with a worried frown. “Did you eat anything today?”

Connor shrugs. “I had breakfast.”

With a loud “humph” Spike draws Connor to the kitchen. He all but lifts him to sit on a stool and goes to open the fridge. He closes it again after a few seconds with a disgusted look. Trust Angel to stock the kitchen with everything but comfort food. He glances back at Connor, who is watching him impassively, his head propped against his closed hand.

“Chinese?” he offers.

“Sure.”

After living with him for a week, Spike knows what Connor likes – in bed, and out of it. The take out menus are next to the phone. Spike orders, prepays with his stolen bit of plastic, and tries not to complain when he’s told how long it will take.

Connor has tugged the duster off him while Spike was ordering, and as he hangs up the phone arms slip around him from behind, sneaky hands already reaching for the fastening of his pants.

“Half an hour,” he says.

Connor presses a kiss at the nape of his neck. “Is that enough time for you to take care of me?”

*

Spike’s thumbs dig on each side of Connor’s spine, pushing hard. A knot dissolves to nothing. Connor grunts into the pillow.

His mind feels heavy, slow and thick. There have been too many words, today, too many thoughts tumbling through his head, going round and round, blurring memories and realities, what is, what was, what never was, what never will be. He still feels full to bursting, still feels the pain of his heart tightening when he saw her picture, still feels his father's arm across his chest, his fingers in his hair. Still feels just a little bit better for that long overdue apology. He thought it'd hurt, to say sorry, to reopen that wound.

“Not what I expected,” he breathes when Spike’s hands slide all the way back up to settle on his shoulders. 

Spike kneads firmly, putting all his weight in the motion. Connor can feel hard flesh pressing against his ass – but it’s hiding behind jeans.

Spike leans down to whisper in the shell of his ear. “And what did you expect?”

Connor tries to turn his head toward him, but Spike clucks his tongue before kissing the back of his neck.

“Sex,” he groans. There’s a growing wet spot beneath him where his cock has been leaking for the past few minutes. Spike’s touch may be innocent, it’s still his hands on Connor’s flesh. Cool hands, but every touch is fire.

“Sex,” Spike repeats, and the tone of his voice matches the word, slithering over Connor like hot fudge. “You mean, like this?”

He presses his mouth at the top of Connor’s spine and licks his way down, his tongue swirling around each vertebra. Connor hums quietly.

“Don’t know. More…”

The words melt on his tongue when Spike’s mouth reaches the top of his ass and keeps going down. He squirms a little, though he couldn’t say if he’s trying to move away or press closer to Spike.

Spike lifts his mouth just enough to whisper four words - “More what, lovely boy?” – before plunging down again. His hands press against Connor’s ass cheeks and push them apart. 

At the first wet touch, Connor jerks, a full body shudder that pushes his cock hard into the mattress. He moans.

“Shh…” 

The puff of air has Connor screwing his eyes tightly shut. Another wet touch, more insistent this time, circling and barely, just barely pressing in. When Spike’s tongue retreats, Connor’s hips follow of their own accord. Spike chuckles very low; the sound curls around Connor’s balls, gentle like fingers.

“Like that, don’t you?”

Connor is still moving back, still seeking wetness and pressure; he’s all but on his knees and begging, praying. Strong hands stop him, hold him, tight and safe - always safe - and still.

“Don't you, boy?” The words are stronger now, demanding an answer.

Connor’s mouth opens, quiet words tumble out before he even knows it. “Yes. Like it.”

Wet and firm and _in_ , and Connor loses his breath right along with his mind.

“Da—”

His throat closes on a whimper. He takes in a shaky breath and tries to get a grip on himself – on reality.

“Damn, _Spike_ , please.”

He’s not sure what he’s pleading for, not sure what he wants or needs anymore – not sure what he’s allowed to want or need. Spike’s tongue pushing as deep as it’ll go, though, his hand sliding over Connor’s hip to take hold of his cock, that’s just perfect.

Perfect and too much, all at once.

It feels like he rides that wet, tight edge for hours, but it could just be seconds before he buries a shout into his pillow, grateful for the liquid fire shooting from his dick, grateful for Spike’s hands and tongue, grateful – oh so _damn_ grateful – that his shout is wordless and indistinct.

He collapses on the bed again, breathing hard, feeling dazed. Spike slides up, covering Connor’s body, arms, legs with his own, cool and heavy, an anchor for Connor’s soul when it tries to break free.

“Love you,” Spike whispers, his lips just brushing against the back of Connor’s ear.

 _I love you too_ , Connor wants to say. _Thank you._ And also, _Fuck me_. What comes out instead is a slurred, quiet, breathy, “Your boy.”

He can feel Spike’s smile against the crook of his neck. “My boy. My sweet, lovely boy.”

Spike’s hands move on top of his. Connor spreads his fingers, and Spike’s curl down, holding tight. He doesn’t know how long they lie like this, immobile and quiet save for his heartbeat and Spike’s soft kisses along his shoulder. What he does know is that he would like this moment – warm and quiet and relaxed and loved - to never end.

When distant knocking on the front door break the peace, Connor lets out a quiet growl. Spike chuckles soundlessly against him.

“I’ll go get the food, luv. Then I’ll come back here, feed my boy, and fuck him into the mattress.”

Connor’s cock twitches back to life beneath him. He hums. “Sounds like a plan.”

But moments after Spike has walked out of the room, Connor hears their voices. He’s out of bed and getting dressed before his heart has stuttered more than twice.

*

Angel doesn’t really have anything to do in his office, and yet that’s where he goes after leaving one of his boys to the care of the other. If he had stayed in the penthouse, he’d have been trying to listen to them, and only insanity waits that way.

He’s looking out through the windows, wondering whether a patrol through dark alleys would be a good idea – it might help him relax a little, but it would clash with the image he’s been trying to project. The phone rings, startling him out of his contemplation. He picks it up, and can only frown at the message he’s given.

“Send him up.”

Moments later, a security guard escorts a delivery man into his office. Two bags are set on his desk and he is given a bill. Gritting his teeth, he signs his name. There’s only one person he can imagine using his name to order Chinese food.

He takes the bag to the apartment, knocks hard so they’ll hear him even if they’re… busy.

When Spike opens the door, wearing nothing more than too tight jeans, Angel glares at him. “You stole my credit card.”

Spike smirks, completely unabashed. Crossing his arms, he leans against the doorjamb. “How else am I supposed to feed him?”

“You could have asked for money.”

Spike’s eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead. “When have you ever given me money when I asked for it?” 

Which is technically true – but not the point. “Well it’s not _my_ money, is it?”

Spike snorts. “So what are you so upset about?”

“Idiot,” Angel mutters.

Anything else he was going to add disappears when Connor appears behind Spike, in jeans and t-shirt, barefoot, hands in his pockets. He grins at Angel. “So CEO isn’t enough, you’re moonlighting as delivery guy too?”

Angel grins back, pleased that they can have this – lightness, jokes – after the heavier words they shared earlier. Without stepping forward – without crossing the threshold – he holds out the two bags. Spike takes one, passes it back to Connor, then takes the second one. He’s about to close the door, Angel is sure, when Connor chuckles.

“You ordered way too much. Again.”

Spike turns to glance at him, already grinning. He must see something on Connor’s face, because when he looks back at Angel, he opens the door a little more widely instead of closing it.

“’Suppose we could use help making a dent in it,” he says, and tugs Angel in by the arm before closing the door behind him. “But General Tsao’s chicken is mine and I’m not sharing _that_.”

What Spike _is_ sharing with Angel is a dinner with Connor. They crowd around the kitchen island, Angel and Spike on one side, Connor on the other. Angel feels a little bit – very much – out of place but he plays the game, picks up a carton, nibbles on food he honestly doesn’t enjoy all that much. It’s not about the food, though. It’s about being there. With them. It’s about Connor’s smile, which Angel didn’t expect to return so soon.

Maybe he underestimated Spike. He’s not sure whether to be pleased or annoyed.

“Do you even like Chinese food?” Connor asks, no doubt noticing that Angel isn’t eating much.

Angel shrugs and gives up on the pretense. He lays down his chopsticks and crosses his arms on the counter. “I’m not that fond of actual food.”

He throws a sideways look at Spike, who is finishing his own take out box with gusto. He envies him a little; it’d be nice to share something like this with Connor every now and then without having to pretend. Looking back at his son, he asks, “Is Chinese your favorite food, then?”

He caught Connor with his mouth full. Before he can swallow and answer, Spike chuckles, the sound low and dirty. “I’m pretty sure I can name at least one thing our boy likes to have in his mouth more than he likes Chinese food.”

Angel's mind stopped at ‘our boy’. He starts glaring at Spike, but when he catches the look the idiot is giving Connor, Angel glances back at him. Connor’s eyes are wide. His blush extends all the way down his neck. When he sees that Angel is looking at him, he ducks his head, hiding behind his bangs.

Understanding hits Angel like a ton of bricks. His throat feels very dry, suddenly, and for some strange reason his fangs are trying to come up. He looks away from Connor – and kicks Spike in the shin. All he gets in reply is a leer, and Spike licking his lips. It takes all of Angel’s self-control to stop the growl rising from his throat.

“I need to go,” he says, sliding off the stool. “Busy day tomorrow. I should get some sleep.”

He turns away and hurries to the door, hoping with all his might that they didn’t notice he’s hard. Judging by the chuckle that echoes behind him, Spike knows. Of course he does. He probably tried to get a rise out of Angel on purpose.

Angel needs a drink.

Hell, he needs a lot more than one.

*


	4. Chapter 4

The door hasn’t closed yet on Angel that Spike offers his best grin in response to an exasperated glare.

“You’re impossible,” Connor says around a mouthful of noodles.

Spike’s grin widens a little more. “What did I do?”

Connor rolls his eyes and puts down his chopsticks. “He's my _Dad_. He doesn’t want to know what we do together.”

“It’s not about what Daddy wants, sometimes, pet,” Spike says, his grin never faltering. He bites back, _It’s about what he needs_. He doubts Connor would understand, and he doesn’t particularly feel like explaining this side of Angel.

“Right.” Connor snorts and slides off his seat. He starts putting the food away in the fridge but throws a glance at Spike and says, “I just wish you wouldn’t rile him up about _that_. It’s weird enough that you and I are together when you two—”

Spike catches Connor’s wrist as he reaches for another take-out box on the table. He pulls, gently but firmly, until Connor steps right between his spread thighs and closes his arms around Connor’s waist.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he says, and now seriousness has replaced his grin. “Don’t try to compare what you and I have here and…” He shrugs. “Just don’t.”

Connor considers him for a few seconds before nodding. He brushes his lips to Spike’s before resting his head on Spike’s shoulder. Spike’s arms tighten around him.

“You’ve got to admit it’s weird, though,” Connor murmurs, the words bubbling against Spike’s skin. His voice drops until Spike has to listen closely to make out the words. “Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if you’ve done with him what you do with me.”

Spike slides a hand beneath Connor’s t-shirt, enjoying the small shiver he gets in response. “Like what?” he says, the hint of a chuckle coloring his tone. “Fuck you? That’s a no, pet. The bastard would never—”

A small, painless bite at the crook of his neck stops Spike abruptly. His cock jumps inside his pants, searching for a playmate – finding it, too. He presses against Connor's crotch, and Connor presses right back.

“I said I _wonder_ ,” Connor mutters. “Didn’t say I actually wanted to know.”

Spike bites back a laugh. He’d believe that if Connor wasn’t growing harder against him. He’s enjoying this talk more than he wants Spike to know; interesting.

“Pretty sure he’s like you,” he says, words soft as a caress as he lets them fall in Connor’s ear. “Wondering. Imagining. And not all that upset to hear—”

“OK, stop,” Connor cuts in, and shudders delicately. “I’ve already got a lifetime’s worth of mental scars, no need to add to it.”

One hand rubbing up and down Connor’s back and the other cupping his ass, Spike remains silent and waits. It doesn’t take long before Connor raises his head and looks at him from beneath his eyelashes, with just a spot of color high on his cheeks.

“You really think he…”

He stops before completing the thought, but Spike knows exactly what he means. His boy is pretty when he’s embarrassed.

“You just said you wonder what he and I used to do. Why wouldn’t _he_ wonder about us?”

Connor’s eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly. “Used to?” he repeats, and kisses Spike softly, gently, like he did earlier when Spike came in after—

When Connor pulls away and gives him a questioning look, it’s Spike’s turn to be embarrassed. He didn’t mean to be anything less than truthful, but if he were in Connor’s shoes he wouldn’t be too happy right now. Still, there’s no anger in Connor’s eyes, no resentment, no accusation. Just a quiet question he apparently won’t voice.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Spike says, and the words grate his throat until he almost thinks he’ll bleed. 

Connor clucks his tongue, a faint smile turning the sound playful rather than chastising. “I thought you weren’t supposed to lie to me. Isn’t that what he said?”

Spike snickers. “Like I usually do what he tells me to.” 

He presses a kiss to Connor’s lips, then a second. Connor kisses back before breaking away.

“You took care of me,” he says, with a grin and a blush that make him look like a just-deflowered virgin. “Like he told you too.”

Spike cups Connor’s face in both hands at that and holds his gaze for a long moment. “You think I need him to tell me to take care of you?”

Connor shakes his head without shaking away Spike’s hold on him, then leans in for another kiss, a little deeper this time, until Spike is humming softly and wondering whether it’s worth getting back to the bedroom or if the island would be comfortable enough. If he sat Connor on there he’d be at the perfect height for a nice, long blowjob. Or maybe—

With a last lick at Spike’s lips, Connor breaks away, stepping right out of Spike’s embrace. “There’s something I need to tell him. I won’t be long.”

Spike blinks, his daydream crumbling in front of him. “What?” 

Connor is already walking out of the kitchen. Spike catches up with him, arm sliding easily around his waist. 

“Wait, I’ll come with you.”

Connor shakes his head before kissing Spike's cheek lightly. “I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

Spike’s mind runs wildly over the last few minutes. There’s only one thing he can think of that could have set off Connor, although he seemed fine about it until a moment ago.

“If it’s about that bloody kiss,” he starts, but Connor lays a finger across his lips.

“It’s not. I’m OK with that.” He grimaces and adds, more quietly, “I think so, at least.”

Spike only has time to wonder what that means exactly before Connor says, “This is not about us. It’s about what happened today. He answered my questions. The least I can do is return the favor.”

Spike doesn’t know what that means either, but Connor’s expression, a little bit wistful but mostly determined, warns him not to press his luck – at least, not now. 

“Don’t be long,” he says, and pinches Connor’s ass lightly. “Not done taking care of you yet like Daddy said.”

The smile Connor throws at him as he walks out is pure sex. Spike waits for the door to close and presses his hand against his cock. He hopes Connor _really_ won’t be long.

*

Connor hesitates for a second in front of Angel’s door. He shakes himself and finally knocks. Moments later, Angel opens the door. His hair is messy, like he raked his fingers through it. His shirt hangs unbuttoned on his chest. He has a half-full glass of alcohol in hand; judging by the scent that curls around him, it’s not his first drink. His surprise at seeing Connor there is obvious, and he frowns.

“Is something wrong?” he asks at once, his eyes searching the hallway, no doubt looking for Spike. When he finds no one, he looks back at Connor and steps aside to let him in.

“Nothing wrong.” Connor enters the penthouse. The carpet feels thick and plush beneath his bare toes. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

He walks up to the windows and stands there, looking down at the city. Lights push back the darkness, and he can see almost as well as in full day. Behind him, a soft clanking noise tells him that Angel has put down his glass.

“Talk about what?”

Without thinking, Connor focuses his gaze on the glass, looking for Angel’s reflection – before he remembers he won’t find it. He turns to see where Angel is. Hands in his pockets and his shirt buttoned halfway up again, he’s much closer than Connor expected, and his eyes are much darker than they were earlier, at the kitchen table. The lightness of that shared meal is gone, and Connor isn’t sure what is left. He’s not sure either why what he wanted to say shifts to something entirely different.

“I know you kissed him.”

Angel blinks, twice, very fast. His body is tense, suddenly, as though he were waiting for an attack. He doesn’t say a word. 

“He says it doesn’t mean anything,” Connor continues, trying to get a response. All he gets is a twitch in Angel’s jaw. So he adds, “I think we all know that’s not true.”

He finally gets a reaction. Angel’s hands close, his mouth twists into what’s almost a grimace. He looks down before meeting Connor’s eyes again. “Connor, it’s not—” 

But suddenly, Connor doesn’t want to talk about that kiss anymore. He doesn’t want excuses or explanations. Doesn’t want promises – doesn’t want them to be broken, either. So he interrupts Angel, and says what he came here to say.

“You asked what was my favorite food. I never answered.”

Angel blinks again, this time relaxing slightly. The change of topic seems to puzzle him but he asks anyway, “So what is it?”

From the moment he decided to come here, Connor has known what he would say, but now that he’s in front of his father the words seem more difficult to find.

“My favorite food,” he starts, but changes his mind and tries again. “The best thing I ever ate was the first thing I ever killed all by myself.”

Angel takes a deep, shaky breath. Before he can say a word, Connor says very quickly, “You asked… I mean, you said you wanted to know about when I was a kid.”

“I do,” Angel says softly, quietly, like he’s afraid to scare Connor away. “I just… Why now?” 

Connor looks behind Angel’s shoulder, at some artwork or other on the wall. “Because you told me about my…” There’s a lump in his throat, and the word refuses to come out. “About _her_. It just feels…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Fair?”

Angel nods slowly, then sits on the edge of the armchair, forearms resting on his thighs and fingers linked in front of him. “Fair,” he repeats quietly, as though to himself. “OK. How old were you?”

Connor turns to the window again, and rests his forehead to the glass. Behind it, the mounds of steel and glass are fading, replaced by rocky hills, the vegetation as sparse as it is in downtown LA. “Five, I think,” he says. “One day, he said—” He can see Holtz’s face in his mind, can hear his voice, cool, dark, unforgiving. “He said I knew enough, I was old enough, and it was time for me to hunt my own food. I didn’t understand what he meant until it was dinnertime and he ate in front of me and wouldn’t let me have anything.”

His eyes sting a bit, and his vision blurs. Up to that time, he loved Holtz unconditionally, believed he was loved back just as much. But with hunger gnawing at him, with Holtz answering his pleas for food with steel eyes, the first cracks of doubt appeared. Later, he convinced himself it had all been for his own good, just one more lesson to make him strong. He had to think as much to simply survive, he now realizes.

He takes a deep breath and starts again. “It took me two days to hunt down a ramara. They were like…. Rabbits, I guess. Just less cute.” He looks down and is mildly surprised to see he’s rubbing his left forearm; there used to be five small scars on each side, where the ramara’s teeth had sunk in. It’s not just his mind the spell healed.

He hears Angel moving behind him, standing, walking closer, his steps a whisper on the carpet. The words come out faster, now. 

“I was so hungry I ate it before it was fully cooked. I didn’t care. It was _good_. When he saw what I had done… I guess I got messy and I had juice and blood down my chin…” He touches his lips and chin; can still feel the backhanded blow that split his lip, still taste his blood mixing with the blood of the ramara. “He called me a monster,” he murmurs, and flinches when Angel’s hand settles on his shoulder, both light and strong. “He said he’d kill me before letting me grow up to be like you.” 

Angel’s hand tightens almost enough to hurt. Connor turns around, blinks until he can see his father's face. His expression is unreadable.

“That was the first time I ever wished you were my dad rather than him.”

His vision is blurring again – but not before he can see Angel’s eyes widening, his face a little bit shocked, a little bit awed. And then he sees nothing, because Angel has grabbed both his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. His face pressed to Angel’s shoulder, his arms tight around him, Connor closes his eyes and chases the less than pleasant memories away. Replaces them with this – closeness, and warmth, and the love of a man he _knows_ would do anything for him. 

After all, he already has.

*

When Hamilton comes in and puts an end to that too perfect moment – “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” – rage boils through Angel, leftover from another life. There’s nothing he wants more at that instant than to kill Hamilton – or rather, nothing he can admit he wants. And even killing Hamilton will have to wait. One day, though. Soon.

His hold on Connor loosens, and without thinking he turns to the intruder, placing himself between Hamilton and Connor. He’s not the only one whose scent just shifted to anger. He’s not the only one who wants to kill.

“You wouldn’t be interrupting anything,” Angel says, words cracking like a whip, “if you didn’t walk into people’s homes unannounced and uninvited.”

Hamilton’s condescending smile has Angel’s hackles rising. “Good thing you’re not people, then. You’re this company’s CEO. Office hours don’t apply to you.”

And with that, he hands Angel a folder. Angel has to make a conscious effort to unclench his hand and take it. He opens it and finds a single piece of paper, covered in more numbers than he cares to read. He raises an exasperated look at Hamilton, who answers the unvoiced question while adjusting his cufflinks.

“The tab for the surveillance you put on your boy today. A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Angel doesn’t bother to look at the numbers again now that he knows what they mean. He replies with clipped words. “No. I don’t.”

Connor shifted from behind Angel as soon as Angel placed himself between him and Hamilton; from the corner of his eye, Angel sees him tilt his head toward the folder, sees his fingers flex, as though wanting to reach for it. But already Hamilton is taking it back with a noncommittal little hum.

“The Senior Partners do,” he says, tone light like he's making conversation. “Seeing how Connor is not part of the company and has killed one of the Senior Partners closest allies—”

“Take it off my paycheck,” Angel cuts in, shattered glass in his voice. “And next time too.”

“Next time?”

The question rises from Connor’s lips, but Angel gave his answer to Hamilton. “I told you before. No one will touch my boy again.”

A quick glance at Connor reveals that he’s wide-eyed, his face a little flushed, but Angel doesn’t regret the words, not even if they’re patronizing as hell and he’s sure Connor will call him on it. He doesn’t regret them, because he has rarely meant anything with more conviction.

Hamilton's lips twitch. “No one touches your boy," he repeats. “Duly noted. Next thing on the agenda. Sebassis is having a dinner.”

Angel perks up at that. He’s been waiting for a chance to get closer to Sebassis since his botched attempt at joining the Black Thorn. “When?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.

Hamilton grins. “Oh, sorry. You’re not invited. Your boy is.”

Angel’s frown turns from Hamilton to Connor, who looks caught between startled and confused.

“Sebassis was quite… impressed by the way you dealt with Vail,” Hamilton continues, and now it’s clear he’s addressing Connor. “I understand he has many questions for you.”

Connor gives Angel a look, wordlessly asking what he’s supposed to reply. Angel is trying to figure that out himself – he is _not_ letting Connor go anywhere near a member of the Black Thorn on his own – but Hamilton gives him an answer. 

“Monday at eight, and you’re allowed one guest. Should I tell Sebassis to have blood on hand for your boyfriend?”

“I’ll be going with him,” Angel says before Connor can reply.

Hamilton quirks an eyebrow at him and asks, deadpan, “Isn’t that what I just said?”

Angel is still staring at the door seconds after it has closed on the damned man. He really, really doesn’t want to identify the feeling that just flashed through him.

Really doesn’t want to know why the words went straight to his dick.

Really needs to swear off alcohol if _this_ is the result.

Really is glad that his shirt is untucked and covering his crotch.

He clears his throat. “Spike is not going to like being left home,” he says, and forces himself to look at Connor. “I’ll tell him.”

There’s a tiny frown on Connor’s brow, like he’s trying to figure something out. He blinks and shakes his head. “No, I will. He’ll take it better coming from me.”

A small, hesitant smile, and Connor crosses the two steps that separate them, gives Angel a brief hug and quiet words. “G’night, Dad.”

It’s a long time after Connor has left – a long time after Angel has finished his best scotch – that he decides he must have imagined it. Of course Connor wasn’t hard when he hugged Angel. Why would he have been?

*

Spike smokes his first cigarette in the kitchen, by the open window, careful to blow the smoke out. Connor never said a thing about the smell, but Spike has seen his lips twitch into a grimace a couple of times, and he knows his boy doesn’t like the scent all that much. 

By the time he lights his third fag, he is sprawled on the sofa, tapping his ashes in a glass, and he couldn’t care less whether Connor minds the smoke or not. He said he’d be back fast. This is _not_ fast.

When he hears footsteps down the hallway, he grabs the television remote and turns it on. Waiting in the dark is a bit obsessive, even for him. A few flicks of his finger and the image stops on naked flesh writhing in front of the camera. His lips twitch into something that could be called a grin if it wasn’t so nasty. He slides down on the sofa, rests his free hand at the top of his thigh. It’s been a while since his cock lost interest, but it’s twitching back to life. 

Connor enters without a word. His smile is tense as he approaches the sofa, but it turns into something amused when he notices what Spike is watching.

“Porn?” he says as he lets himself fall into the sofa, his body pressed alongside Spike’s. “And porn with girls, too?” He nuzzles into Spike’s neck and presses a kiss there. “Trying to tell me something?”

Spike remains very still except for his hand pulling the cigarette to his lips for a last long drag. He lets the smoke out as slowly as he can, acting as though the feel of Connor’s tongue on his throat didn’t affect him. It's not the blonde on the screen who's making his cock twitch, though.

“Just got bored,” he drawls, and drops the stub in the ashtray-glass. “Always liked a nice pair of tits.”

Connor makes a noise against his neck, something like a laugh. Amused, is he? Spike isn’t. Not at all.

“You fought with him?” he asks, teeth clenched.

Connor freezes for an instant against him, then shifts closer still, turning into Spike. His knee nudges Spike’s legs open until he’s all but sitting on his thigh. His mouth never lifts from Spike’s skin, now sliding along his shoulder.

“No,” he breathes, and catches Spike’s skin between his teeth, not quite tight enough to call it a bite. “Why would I?”

Spike bites his tongue until he bleeds rather than answering. If Connor wants to pretend he doesn’t care about that kiss, fine. Just bloody fine. But Spike isn’t pretending. His fists curl on the sofa so he won’t reach for Connor, won’t return the light touching of Connor’s fingers along his chest.

“You smell like him,” he grunts. Didn’t want to say it but can’t help saying the words.

Connor’s eyelashes caress his shoulder before he pulls away, raises his head to look at Spike. Spike is usually pretty good at reading his face, but his expression is inscrutable. 

“Don’t I _always_ smell like him?” he asks, voice mild. “I thought you didn’t mind.”

Spike doesn’t bother answering. Just holds his gaze until Connor brushes his lips to Spike’s. 

“I… I mean, we hugged.”

Spike has to wonder why that quiet statement is accompanied by a thread of guilt in Connor’s scent. He’s not all that sure he really wants to know. He can’t stop himself anymore. He has to touch. He raises his hand and slides it beneath Connor’s t-shirt, trailing a caress up his back. Connor practically melts into him at the touch, arms curling around Spike, his face pressing into his shoulder again. 

Behind them, the asinine dialogue turns frantic – “Oh yes fuck me please! Fill my pussy with your big hard cock!”

Connor snickers against Spike’s skin. He presses forward, until they’re hardness to hardness, and his lips move like a caress. “Will you fill me with your big hard cock?” he asks, but can’t hold on to his serious tone and ends up chuckling.

Spike snickers. “You’re a terrible actor, boy.”

Connor bucks against him, the movement so raw, so fast that Spike knows there’s no conscious thought behind it. _That_ is not acting. It’s a reflex, pure and simple.

“I think…” Connor’s throat clicks as he swallows hard. “I mean, maybe you shouldn’t call me that anymore.”

Spike stops halfway through pulling Connor’s t-shirt over his head. Finishes and looks at him, frowning. “I thought you liked—”

“I do,” Connor says quickly, and there’s heat rising in his cheeks. “Too much. Getting hard every time…” He gulps. “Every time I hear that word is starting to be a bit embarrassing.”

Spike considers him for a moment. Not every time he hears the word, Spike would bet. Every time _Angel_ says it. He cups Connor’s face, more roughly than he meant to, and leans in until they’re nose to nose. His game face is trying to come up, and it’s all he can do to stop it. The demon is in his voice, though, when he growls. “No.”

Connor blinks. Shivers. “No?” he repeats, a tiny squeak in the word.

“No. You’re my boy. _Mine_. Ask _him_ to call you something else.”

Connor’s face is even warmer now; burning. His eyes are shining with need. Spike crashes his mouth against Connor’s, grabs his shoulders and twists their bodies, pushes him down into the sofa. In seconds, he has pulled Connor’s jeans off, then his own. He lies down over him, presses their cocks together, kisses him hard again. With each slide of his tongue or cock against Connor’s, tiny, needful moans rise from his boy’s throat. He’s clutching at Spike’s shoulders, nails digging in, writhing under him. His legs open and come up around Spike’s, holding him in place.

Out of breath and gasping, Connor breaks off the kiss. “Please,” he says, and a jolt of fire shoots up Spike’s spine at how sweetly he begs.

“Lube’s in the bedroom,” he mumbles, pressing kisses along Connor jaw. 

_Mental note. Need lube to keep between sofa cushions._

Connor thrusts harder against him, arching beneath Spike, head thrown back against the armrest of the sofa. “Don’t care. Want you. Now.”

His throat is bare, long and pale. Spike can’t take his eyes off it even as he pushes two fingers into Connor’s mouth. The clever boy’s tongue twirls around them, coating them with saliva. Spike licks his lips as he pulls them away, slides his hand between their bodies, leaving a wet trail on Connor’s stomach, his dick, his balls. When he reaches his opening, Spike’s fingers are all but dry. He presses in anyway, slow but unyielding, and Connor opens for him with a low moan. Spike presses a kiss at the hollow of his throat, feeling the sound with his lips. 

Connor trembles, bears down on his fingers, moans louder. His hand is tight at the back of Spike’s neck, but it’s not pushing him down nor pulling him away, like he doesn’t know what to do – what he wants to do. Spike trails kisses along his boy’s throat, skin smooth as silk, unbroken, the hint of sweat and salt on his tongue – but for the first time, there’s no fear in Connor, no hesitation, no scrambling to get the big bad vamp’s mouth away from his neck. Spike pushes his fingers deeper, twists them, stretches, and that’s about all he can take. He pulls back and, hand shaking hard, he grabs his dick and lines it with Connor’s entrance.

“My boy,” he growls against Connor’s neck, and presses into his trembling body as slowly as he can bear. The tightness and burning are exquisite, as are the wordless, pleading noises falling from Connor’s lips. Spike fastens his mouth to Connor’s neck, pulls hard even as he pushes deeper inside him. His fangs itch to sink into sweet, sweet flesh. His dick demands that he pushes hard, harder, finally buries himself in all the way, make his boy cry out his name. He clings to his self control with all his might, listening carefully to Connor’s moans, attentive to the hands clutching at his back. At the first sound of pain, the first hesitant touch, he’ll stop – or at least try to. 

But Connor takes it all – the sucking at his throat, bloodless but there’ll be a mark, there, tomorrow, for all to see he’s Spike’s, and the breaching of his body, Spike’s cock slowly inching forward on spit and sweat alone. And when Spike is balls deep inside him, when he raises his head to give a warning - _Gonna start thrusting now, luv, you ready?_ \- Connor’s eyes are just two slits, pale blue skies drowned into pupils as dark as hell, and he’s watching Spike like there’s nothing else in the world but the two of them.

Spike swallows back the warning right along with the words of sheer gratitude that want to escape, rears back and slams back in. Connor’s shout is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard, and it’s a damn good thing Spike's soul can’t go anywhere.

*

When Angel steps out of the bathroom with a towel tied at his waist, Spike is sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed. He still has his shoes on. They’re dirty. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips and ashes on Angel’s bed. His eyes are daring Angel to do something about any of it.

Angel takes a deep breath – and turns to his dresser. He doesn’t have time for Spike’s games now.

“I was wondering,” he says as calmly as he can, “why you didn’t come down kicking and screaming to the office today. He didn’t tell you until he came back from work, did he?”

He only turns back toward Spike when he has his suit pants on. There’s now a cigarette burn hole in his Egyptian cotton sheets.

_Deep breath. If you smack him down now you’ll be late at Sebassis’. You can kick his ass tomorrow._

“Did you have fun playing Pygmalion, then?” Spike says, his tone scathing. “You really had to send your bloody tailor to—”

Angel pulls a black shirt from the closet, inspects it. “This dinner is important,” he cuts in. “Jeans and t-shirt wouldn’t cut it.” There’s a wrinkle on the collar. He drops the shirt in the dry cleaning basket and pulls another one out. This one is blue; it matches Connor’s eyes, but that’s not why he slides it on. Not at all.

“Right,” Spike drawls. His voice is closer now, and when Angel turns around he’s just two feet away and staring him up and down. “Important dinner. And you’re wearing a silk shirt to look more impressive. Not because you’re going on a date.”

Angel’s fingers freeze halfway up buttoning the shirt. Eyes widening, he stares at Spike. “A _date_?” He chokes up on the word. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Spike’s expression remains pure stone. “I was going to ask you the same thing. Seems to me you enjoy playing daddy a bit too much.”

Angel blinks slowly and drops his hands to his sides. He’s not sure when they clenched into fists. “I am his father,” he says, shards of ice shining in his voice. “Not… not _that_.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Spike asks, and there’s a hundred years’ worth of filth and sex in his words and eyes.

Angel is growling before he knows it. “Be quiet, boy.”

Spike bares his teeth at him as he leans in closer. “See, that doesn’t work. Either I’m your boy, or he is, but that word can’t mean two different things.” His narrowed eyes are pure gold. “Unless you mean it the same way for both of—”

“Shut up,” Angel snarls, and pushes past him, bumping hard against Spike's shoulder. His fingers are shaking when he picks up his cufflinks from the top of the dresser.

Spike’s hand closes on his arm and pulls until they’re face to face again. Spike is in game mask; Angel stops trying to push back his own and vamps out.

“Do you?” Spike’s words are a challenge, as are his bared fangs. “Do you want him to be your boy that way?”

Angel drops the cufflinks and grabs Spike’s shirt with both hands. “I _said_ shut the hell up.”

Both hands against Angel’s chest, Spike pushes back. He shakes his head; shakes the game face away. In just a blink, his eyes switch off, from glowing gold to a blue so dark it almost seems black. It's like all life drained out of him. Angel shivers.

“When I asked if you’d fucked him, you threatened to cut my dick. Now I ask if you want to, and all I get is a shut up?” Spike shakes his head again. His voice is as dark, as cold, as ruthless as the ocean. “I guess that answers my question.”

Angel can’t even believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe Spike would think this about him.

Can’t believe Spike knows him that well.

His game face melts away. His anger does the same, leaves only shame behind. “He’s my son, Spike.”

Spike doesn’t even blink. “I know that. Do you?”

Silence falls on the room, crushing everything – crushing Angel’s soul until he’s sure the bruising will show.

“That’s where you went.” Connor’s voice rises behind them, and they both jump, startled. “I should have known,” he continues, and there’s just a trace of exasperation in the words. “Although it doesn’t look like you started beating each other up yet. Should I be worried?”

Angel turns to him, looks away again at once. The suit looks good on him, and it’s not just the magical tailoring. Spike shoves a hand under his nose. Angel’s first instinct is to push it away; he stops when he notices the cufflinks in Spike’s palm and snatches them back.

He can feel both their gazes on him as he finishes getting dressed. He can’t bear to look at either of them.

“We better go,” Connor says as Angel slips his jacket on. 

Angel looks at him then. His fingers itch. Two steps and he’s standing in front of Connor, reaching for his tie, straightening it just a bit. Connor rolls his eyes but lets him do it. When Spike walks by them, though, striding for the door, Connor turns and grabs his hand. 

“Want to go hunting afterwards?” he asks, thousand-watts smile to the front.

Spike’s voice starts sweet and thick as syrup— “Oh, sure thing, pet. I’ll wait home like a good boy ‘til you and daddy come back. Sounds like fun.” –and ends up bitter enough that Angel grimaces.

He pulls his hand free and leaves. The front door bangs shut behind him. Connor flinches at the sound, already turning toward it, no doubt to follow. Angel rests his hand on his shoulder, stops him before he can take a step.

“He’ll have calmed down by the time we’re back,” Angel says, trying to sound convincing although he’s not all that certain it’s true.

Connor sighs softly. “I hope so.”

*

Connor’s keys are still in his closed hand, digging into his palm hard enough to hurt, when Angel’s car pulls out of the parking lot. 

“I can’t believe he took my car,” he mutters again, frowning at the road from the passenger side.

Angel makes a small sound that could almost sound like a chuckle. “And I can’t believe you’re surprised. It’s _Spike_. He’s mad. If all he does is borrow your car, you’ll be lucky.”

Connor’s frown shifts to Angel. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“I didn’t mean…” Angel’s eyes flicker toward him; he’s not amused anymore. “I’m sure he won’t do anything stupid,” he says, sounding contrite – and not all that convincing.

Biting on his bottom lip, Connor turns to the door window. He wishes he hadn’t forgotten all about that dinner until the tailor knocked on their door. If he had told Spike that morning, or even better the previous night, Spike would have had time to get mad and then over it before Connor actually had to leave. Instead, he argued and sulked and went to confront Angel. And all that for what?

Connor sighs. “What are we doing?”

He looks at Angel again, just in time to see him practically jump on his seat, as though the question startled him. 

“What are we…” Angel glances at him again, eyes wide and for some unfathomable reason a little bit guilty. “What do you mean?”

Connor’s frown returns to full force. “The dinner?” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “What are we trying to achieve with that anyway?”

Angel blinks and looks back at the road. His hands are clenched tight on the steering wheel, and Connor can only wonder why he’s so nervous suddenly.

“Right,” Angel says, and the word comes out in a huff of air. “The dinner. Sebassis is one of the most powerful members of the Black Thorn. I’m trying to get close to them again. So we are _not_ trying to antagonize or threaten him. Got it?”

His last words hold enough worry that Connor can practically taste it, a burst of sourness on the back of his tongue. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like his father to be worried for him – to be afraid he’ll lose Connor again. He agrees before he can think about it. But when, half an hour later, he’s seated at the head of the dinner table across from Sebassis, with Angel on his right, two other demons on his left, and six servers that look suspiciously like bodyguards around them, he realizes something. Playing nice isn’t going to impress Sebassis. 

Sebassis issued that dinner invitation to a killer. If it’s not what Connor gives him, they might get to a confrontation much sooner than Angel wants. He’s pretty sure Angel would have realized that too if he wasn’t so anxious.

“Angel told me you’re part of the Black Thorn?” he says at the first lull in the conversation.

All eyes turn toward him. Angel clears his throat, trying to draw his attention, but Connor keeps his gaze straight on Sebassis and waits for an answer.

“That is not something for us to discuss tonight.” Sebassis doesn’t break eye contact either as he holds his cup for his… pet, slave, whatever that thing is to refill.

“If you are,” Connor says, with just enough doubt in his voice to sound skeptical without being too insulting, “I need you to pass a message to them.” He pauses, then amends his words. “Or rather, a warning.”

Angel’s foot nudges his under the table. Connor’s eyes flicker to him, just long enough to catch a slight head shake and frantic gaze. He doesn’t react to either.

“A warning?” Sebassis repeats, like the word is unfamiliar to him. “And what would that be?”

“Simply to stay away from my family.”

Sebassis chuckles, and after a second the two other demons, who have been very quiet and very still since Connor started talking, join in with quiet, strained laughs.

“I’m sure your father can take care of himself,” Sebassis says, throwing a sharp grin in Angel’s direction.

“Oh, I’m sure he can,” Connor replies, his tone just as deceptively mild. “And I’m also sure he’d kick my ass if I implied otherwise.” He raises the glass of wine he hasn’t touched so far and toasts Angel, receiving another imploring look. It’s too late to stop now, though. “I don’t mean my father. I mean my human family. Vail sent demons after them to draw me out. He hurt them. That’s the reason he died. And anyone who so much as breathes too hard in their direction will die like he did.”

For long seconds, there isn’t a sound or movement in the room. The tension, though, is almost palpable, growing with each beat from Connor’s heart until he starts thinking he’s made a mistake. And then, very slowly, Sebassis inclines his head.

“I will transmit your… warning,” he says, and raises his cup toward Connor before wetting his lips. “I wonder, though. You call them your family. But you also call Angel your father.”

“Connor is—”

Sebassis makes an annoyed sound when Angel tries to talk. The bodyguards tense a little more around the table, though they don’t move.

“Let the boy answer,” Sebassis says, and his tone suffers no argument.

Angel, however, does argue. So much for not antagonizing Sebassis. “He’s not just a boy,” he says, practically growling, and pushes back from the table just enough that the gesture could look threatening. “He’s _my_ boy and I’m not liking where this conversation is going.”

“It’s all right, Dad,” Connor says, and brushes his fingers to Angel’s shoulder.

Angel turns to him, and as their eyes meet Connor understands why he is upset. He doesn’t want to hear Connor’s answer. He’s afraid of it. Shouldn’t he know better by now? Connor gives him a small smile, and he can feel Angel relaxing beneath his hand.

“They _are_ my family,” he says as he looks back at Sebassis. “And Angel _is_ my father.” 

Sebassis doesn’t respond; he looks like he’s waiting for more. And so Connor gives him more, making his eyes as hard as he knows how. “But don’t make any mistake about it. The person who made me who I am is Angelus.”

He knows, at the moment the words pass his lips, that they’re exactly what Sebassis hoped to hear tonight. His host makes a tiny gesture, and the stance of the bodyguards around them changes, just enough to be perceptible: they’re not ready to kill anymore.

But as right as the words may be, they’re also the worst possible thing he could have said. Angel doesn’t make eye contact with him for the rest of the evening, and even after they leave, with Sebassis’ promise that another invitation will come soon, he doesn’t say a word to Connor.

 _Just great_ , Connor thinks as he climbs into the Porsche. _First Spike, and now Angel. I really have a knack for finding vampires' weaknesses._

“You do realize I just told him what he wanted to hear, right?” he says when Angel starts the car.

The engine roars, then stalls, like Angel has never driven a stick shift before. He starts it again and the car pulls away, tires screeching. A muscle ticks in his jaw but he doesn’t say a word.

“Come on,” Connor sighs. “You saw it too. He didn’t want to meet Connor Reilly. He wanted to meet Vail’s killer, and know if it was just a fluke or more than that. I gave him and his little friends something to think about before they decide to come after me. I bought us time. You see that, don’t you?”

They’re back at Wolfram & Hart’s before Angel finally says something.

“You told Angelus the same thing.” He parks the car and turns a hard look to Connor. “You told _him_ he was your father.”

Connor swallows hard, but he doesn’t look away. “I meant it,” he says, and reaches for Angel’s shoulder like he did earlier. Angel flinches back as though burned. “At the time, I meant it. I didn’t know any better.” He shrugs, and tries to smile. What comes out feels like a grimace. “There was a lot I didn’t understand until just a few weeks ago. But I _know_ now.”

Angel holds his gaze for a long time before finally nodding. Connor lets out a quiet, relieved breath. Maybe it’s not as bad as he feared. Or so he thinks until Angel gets out of the car and walks over to the elevator. The doors close on him before Connor has even taken three steps out of the car. He blinks in surprise, unexpected tears prickling his eyes.

“Shit,” he murmurs, and the word almost seems to echo in the deserted parking lot

He really did fuck things up. Maybe Spike can help him figure out how to fix them. Once Connor has figured out how to fix things with him.

But as he looks around him, Connor soon realizes that Sharona is not there. Fingers crossed and holding his breath, he goes up to their apartment, but Spike isn’t there either.

Connor sits on the sofa and waits. Waits, and hopes that Spike will come back to him. Hopes that he won’t go to Angel instead.

He’s still waiting when morning comes. He doesn’t hold much hope anymore, though.

*

When Angel walks down to his office that morning, Harmony brings him the usual mug of blood and merrily starts chirping at him about his appointments for the day. 

“Cancel them,” he grunts at her; somehow, he has to repeat himself three times before she stops arguing. 

Some days, he really wonders why he still hasn’t fired her. At least, she does guard his door and keeps everyone away. He can hear Wesley, at some point, just behind the door and wanting to come in. His finger brushes over the intercom, but he pulls back without pressing the button. Moments later, Wesley retreats, defeated.

They’ve all been giving up much too easily since they started working for Wolfram & Hart.

Hours trickle by, each as long as a decade.

At first, Angel does try to work. He has a pile of documents to read and sign; boring but necessary work. It isn’t long before the sight of his own name starts irritating him, though, and after he catches himself starting to add another letter after the L, he figures he’s done for the day.

The liquor cabinet on the other side of the room beckons him, promising a world in which things aren’t so complicated, or so painful. In which his son is truly his. 

Hands flat on his desk, he pushes himself to his feet and takes slow steps across the room. It’s a bad idea and he knows it, but he doesn’t really care at that moment. He thought he and Connor had made progress, thought Connor finally meant it when he called him ‘Dad’, but now the old doubts have resurfaced. Of all the things Angelus did or said when trapped in the Hyperion’s cage or after he escaped, it’s that conversation with Connor that still pains Angel the most. And now that he knows that Connor actually _meant_ it…

He reaches blindly into the cabinet and pulls out the first bottle his fingers find. Sake, offered to him by a client. He twists the cap off and pours himself a glass. Takes both the glass and bottle to the sofa, though he sits there without taking a sip.   
The thing is, he _knows_ he’s being an idiot. Knows Connor was right to get in Sebassis’ face, to show what he was made of – if only in words. Knows Connor might have meant these words, once, but doesn’t mean them anymore.

Knowing all that doesn’t make anything any easier.

It’s an hour later but he still hasn’t touched the sake when the door opens wide and Connor strides in. Harmony appears behind him, wringing her hands as she gives Angel a questioning look. 

“It’s all right,” he tells her. Standing, he places the bottle on the conference table but keeps the glass in his hand. “Even when I tell you no visitors, he can still come in.”

She touches two fingers to her temple in a mock salute and closes the door. Angel brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip before finally looking at Connor. He stopped just two steps in and is standing there, arms crossed, his face turned toward the back of the room – toward the sword hanging on the wall behind the desk, Angel realizes after a few seconds. He’s wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt rather than his usual work attire, which means he went to his apartment and changed.

“Did he come to you?” Connor asks, and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

Angel frowns. This was not what he expected. “Who? Spike?”

Connor’s eyes turn to him. They shine with ice. Angel could almost think they’re back in time. He downs the rest of his glass in one gulp.

“Yes Spike,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t play games with me now. I don’t care if he came to you, I just want to know if you saw him since last night. Since after the dinner, I mean.”

Connor is lying when he says he doesn’t care, Angel thinks, and something dark slither across his soul. He hates it when his son lies to him.

He’s also hurt, and Angel feels a pang of guilt at that. It’s his fault. It’s always his fault.

Mostly, though, he’s scared, and that’s something Angel can’t stand. He’d slay all the monsters if it only meant Connor could sleep better at night. He just doesn’t think it’d help.

Whatever anger Angel still felt from those words offered to Sebassis dissipates in the light of this simple fact: Connor needs him. Whether it’s to reassure him, find Spike or kick some sense back into him still needs to be determined, but Angel will do whatever Connor needs him to. He’ll say whatever Connor needs to hear. He’ll swallow back his own fears and doubts and try to soothe his son’s.

“I didn’t see him,” he says, and hopes Connor believes him. “But he’ll be back. He probably got himself trapped inside somewhere by daylight. He’ll be back at nightfall.”

Connor’s gaze turns to the windows. Angel doesn’t need to look back to know sunset is still an hour or so away.

Millimeter by millimeter, Connor’s shoulders slump until he seems to lose a couple of inches right in front of Angel’s eyes. Without thinking, Angel sets his glass down and walks over to him, rests a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he murmurs. “And he’ll be back. He always comes back. Even burning up to ashes didn’t stop him from coming back.”

It’s only when Connor looks at him through wide, horrified eyes that Angel realizes maybe he should have left the ‘burning to ashes’ bit out.

“He’s _fine_ ,” he says again, and squeezes Connor’s shoulder lightly.

“He took my car. Is there any way…” Connor looks around the room and shrugs. Angel’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I mean, can your people find it?" He bites down his bottom lip before adding even more quietly, “Or find him?”

Angel gives up on trying to explain that Spike probably climbed into one bottle too many and will come back once he’s sobered up. Worried as Connor already is, it wouldn’t help anything. So instead, he picks up his phone and barks a few orders.

Tracking the car, it soon turns out, is easier than tracking down Spike. The first was impounded in the early hours of morning for illegal parking. The second, Angel’s shamans say, is within the city limits. Not all too helpful.

Connor stops pacing through the room just long enough to ask, “Where was the car when it was impounded?”

Another phone call, and they have an address – as well as the assurance that the car will be back at Wolfram & Hart, detailed and with a full tank of gas, before the night is over.

It takes all of Angel’s pleading skills to stop Connor from running out on his own right away, although in the end it’s a glare and four words that do the trick – “I said _sit_ , boy”.

At nightfall, they’re out.

Ten minutes later, they’re where the car was abandoned. Spike’s scent is faint, but between the two of them they track it down to a nearby bar – of course – then to a back alley.

Judging by the way Connor’s jaw clenches, it’s clear he can smell the blood as well as Angel can; can recognize it, too.

Angel’s hand settles at the back of Connor’s neck. He can feel him trembling, can smell his fear.

“He’s fine,” he says again, but this time he’s not sure anymore whom he’s trying to convince.

*

They look for Spike all night long, and with each passing hour the feeling of dread in Connor’s stomach just expands a little more. Even mad as hell, Spike wouldn’t do this to him. He’s sure of it.

He _wants_ to be sure.

When the sun rises, they’re not any closer to finding him than they were at nightfall. Connor has long since lost count of how many informants they talked to – or shook – with no result whatsoever. He’d keep looking even without Angel but he doesn’t know _where_. They’ve gone back to that back alley twice but the trail of Spike’s scent just vanishes two streets down. He must have climbed into a car, or at least that’s what Angel says. Connor wishes he’d sound more convincing when he says it.

By the time they get back to Wolfram & Hart, Angel’s promises that Spike will be back taste too sour for Connor to believe them anymore. He just nods and goes into the apartment. He knows Spike is not there – Angel would have received a call if he had come back – but he checks each room anyway. He’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed when he enters the bedroom. He’s tired, but he can’t imagine going to sleep now. Can’t imagine lying down in that bed by himself, with Spike’s scent all around him reminding him of his absence.

He takes a long shower, gets dressed, pushes a breakfast down his throat more by habit than because he’s hungry. Then he goes to work. The next few hours seem to last forever. He rushes back to the office as soon as the clock ticks five o’clock. 

As soon as he sees Angel’s face, he knows. “No news.”

Angel shakes his head. “No news. I’ve got shamans working on it and Wes…”

He keeps enumerating the things he’s doing to find Spike. Connor nods automatically even though he barely hears any of it. He’s grateful, sure, but he’ll be more grateful when Spike is back where he belongs. He waits until Angel is done and says the only thing that matters.

“Nightfall?”

It sounds like a question, but he walks out of Angel’s office without waiting for an answer.

Like the previous night, they’re out at sunset. Any other time, it might have been nice to go out with his father like this, to patrol, to be with him without feeling like they had to talk. It always seems so hard to talk to him. They barely say a dozen words to each other until midnight has come and gone. They’ve beaten up a couple of demons, staked a few vamps, with just as little result as the previous night. 

The last fight doesn’t go so well, and rather than staking his opponent, Connor watches from a few feet away, his head still ringing from hitting a brick wall a bit too hard.

Angel comes over, looks down at him, offers him his hand. Connor takes it and grunts as he’s pulled to his feet. Angel doesn’t let go.

“We’re done,” he says, his tone as hard as his grip. “This is getting us nowhere and you’re exhausted. We’ll—”

“I’m not stopping!” Connor tries to pull free, but Angel’s hold on his wrist only tightens a little more. “Let me go! If you don’t want to find him—”

“Don’t be stupid.” Angel’s eyes flash gold for a second. “I want to find him as much as you do. But you getting hurt because you’re too tired to fight won’t bring him home any faster. Now either you come nicely or you force me to break a promise and hurt you.”

Connor clenches his fists. His jaw is closed tight enough to hurt.

Angel’s eyes flash gold again. “Don’t think I won’t do it, boy.”

Connor blinks. Just like that, it’s over.

They’re back to the building before he knows it. Angel doesn’t let go of him before they enter his apartment.

“They’re still searching, right?” Connor asks, and his throat feels raw, like he’s been shouting for hours. 

“They won’t stop until he’s back,” Angel says, words as sweet as though he’s offering candy. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket, shows it to Connor. “I’ll know as soon as they find something and I’ll come tell—”

“No,” Connor cuts in. “I mean, can you stay here?” He looks toward the second bedroom, then back at his father. “So I can hear if they call. I don’t want—” 

He doesn’t want to be alone, but he can’t say that. Instead, he mutters, “I don’t want to waste any time.”

Angel reaches out and passes a hand through Connor’s hair. Connor bows his head and closes his eyes for an instant.

“Anything,” Angel says softly. “Now go and get some rest.”

Feeling numb, Connor nods and walks to his bedroom. He stays under the shower for a long time, knowing that once he gets out he’ll need to face the bed. He’d rather fight a half dozen vampires.

Eventually, wearing sweatpants and one of Spike’s t-shirts, he slips out of the room again. The apartment is dark; the door to the second bedroom is closed. Connor tiptoes to the sofa and turns the television on, hitting the mute button immediately. He starts the games console and picks up the controller. The game hasn’t even finished loading when Angel walks out of the bedroom. He turns off the television without a word.

His night vision ruined, Connor blinks at the shadow looming over him. “Hey! What—”

Angel pulls the remote from Connor’s hand and drops it on the armchair. “You need to sleep,” he says, voice quiet but strong.

There’s a knot in Connor’s throat and it’s hard to speak. “I can’t.”

“You’re worried. I get that. But I also know you being exhausted won’t help Spike, and it won’t bring him back home any faster.”

Connor blinks very fast. He’s glad suddenly that the lights are off – and then he remembers. It doesn’t matter to Angel how dark it is.

With a sigh, Angel sits down next to him. “He’s fine,” he murmurs, and by now the words sound like a prayer more than an affirmation. His hand curls at the back of Connor’s head, draws him to rest against his shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

Connor closes his eyes, and wonders if it’d be wrong to pray for a vampire’s safety. It’s been a long time since he prayed for anything. He’s not too sure that, in this life, he ever believed in God, nevermind Sunday school, religion classes and years of being an altar boy. In another life, though, he learned to read from a small, battered Bible. Learned to write by copying down verses with a stick in the mud. Learned that his destiny was to kill vampires. Learned to hate them – and Angel most of all.

And now… Now he’s learned love. And he can’t imagine his life without these two vampires in it.

He falls asleep with Angel’s hand running through his hair and a prayer dying on his lips.

*

After what feels like an eternity, Connor’s heartbeat slows down and his breathing evens out. Angel isn’t familiar enough with Connor’s sleep to know how deep it is, so he remains very still save for his hand, carding through Connor’s damp hair. 

Little by little, the scent of fear and misery that has been wrapped around Connor for hours fades out, replaced by a more neutral scent, soap and shampoo, and just the faintest hint of blood from where Connor hit his head and scratched his scalp. Angel’s fingertips brushed against the raised skin once by accident; he wonders if his fingers would be red if he looked at them. Wonders if Connor’s blood still tastes the same.

He shuts his eyes briefly, tries to shut that line of thought the same way. All he can smell now is his own guilt.

When a small, whiny noise rises from Connor’s throat, low and deep, Angel turns his face to where Connor’s still rests on his shoulder, lays a kiss on the top of his head.

“Shh… It’s all right, baby.” The whisper falls from his lips as softly as a lullaby. “Everything will be all right. Daddy’s here.”

Connor shifts against him, and for an instant Angel thinks he was too loud and woke him up. His hand stills on Connor’s head, and accompanies it down. He takes a sharp breath in and closes his eyes again, chasing away shameful thoughts that have no place here and now – no place in his life at all, but he can’t manage to stop them, can’t stop himself from imagining—

He bites down on his lip hard enough to bleed. He knows he’s shaking and tries to stop, lest he’d wake Connor for good. Because when Angel opens his eyes and looks down, Connor is still asleep, now curled up on his side, his cheek on Angel’s thigh, one hand beneath his chin like a child, the other resting just above Angel’s knee.

After a moment, Angel starts caressing his hair again. With each pass, his hand falls lower, running over Connor’s neck, then his back, rubbing slow circles there. He wishes he had a blanket to drape over Connor; wishes he had heat to share. Wishes he’d dare draw Connor closer, take him fully into his arms, curl his body around his son’s and hold him safe until the world crumbles around them.

But he has no blanket, no heat, and no right to take advantage of Connor’s fears.

He tries to distract himself by thinking about Spike. In truth, if Connor hadn’t been fretting over his absence, Angel would not have given it a second thought. Spike can take care of himself, and Angel has lost count of how many times he climbed into a bottle and forgot the way out. But with the few clues they found, Angel knows it’s something else this time. If the mages, with all of Wolfram & Hart magic behind them, can’t pinpoint his location, it means something or someone is shielding him. Angel intends to find out who, and why. He intends to get Spike back from wherever he’s hiding – wherever he’s being held – and not just because Connor’s heart would break if Spike didn’t come back. As much as it pains Angel to admit it to himself – and he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else – he’s gotten used again to having Spike around, and he has been missing him, too. Not that Spike would ever believe that.

Hours pass, ticking away to the quiet rhythm of Connor’s heartbeat and Angel’s hand. It’s only minutes before sunrise when the faint whisper of metal brushing against metal draws Angel’s eyes to the door. It opens slowly, closes behind Spike again with barely a sound. Without a thought, Angel shifts to game face to see better in the darkness. He watches Spike cross the hallway and come toward them, stopping just four feet from the sofa. There’s no hint of an injury in the way he moves. Angel breathes in deeply; no trace of blood on his scent either, but the smell of alcohol is there, thick and sweet, draped around him like a cloak of smoke. Anger rising inside him, Angel glares at Spike, accusations and insults curling on his tongue. The words die away when he meets Spike’s eyes; if they start the blame game, things will get ugly and fast.

Dropping his eyes to Connor, Angel shifts back to his human face. He rubs Connor’s shoulder, squeezes lightly.

“Connor?” Quiet and gentle, so he won’t startle him. “Wake up, son. He’s back.”

*

Spike wishes he were surprised to find that Connor isn’t alone when he comes back, but he expected as much. Angelus was never one to let opportunities pass him by. He watches them, finding little comfort in the fact that they’re both clothed. He’s afraid to breathe in – afraid of what scents he’d find on the air if he did. 

In truth, deep down, he doubts Angel is that far gone, doubts even more that Connor would play along. The doubts don’t erase the memories, though. Everyone who loves Angel always comes back to him in the end – Spike has seen it too often not to know it as well as he knows his own name.

And still… Eyes glowing in the dark, Angel glares at him, but he doesn’t say a word to Spike, waking up Connor instead. His conscience isn’t all that clean, is it? Spike's hands close, fingernails digging into skin.

The boy is up in a flash; he takes two stumbling steps to Spike and enfolds him in his arms. _This_ Spike didn’t expect. He thought Connor would be mad, would yell – fight. He had weapons ready for a battle, smirks like razors and cutting words of steel. Unsure how to react, he remains very still even as babbling words wash over him.

“Where have you been? I was so worried. We both were. Did you know Sharona was impounded? We’ve looked all over town for you. What happened?”

Very slowly, Spike closes his arms around Connor, almost surprised again when he doesn’t draw back. As he presses his face to Connor’s neck, he shifts to the demon mask without a thought, breathes deep. He’s shaking when he forces himself to shift back.

“Got in a bit of trouble, is all,” he mutters, lips brushing against Connor’s skin. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Nothing for me to—” Connor pulls back without letting go. “It’s been two days! Of course I—”

Behind him, Angel got to his feet and turned on the lights. His eyes widening, Connor blinks several times. His hand rises to ghost over Spike’s face and the bruises Spike knows are there. It’s just discolored flesh, nothing bad, and Connor has seen him like this before – he’s caused bruises like those the first times they fought, too – but from his expression alone, Spike could almost believe he’s been flayed alive. He tries not to flinch back.

“What happened?” Connor repeats, words quiet and trembling.

If there was anything over than worry in his voice, if he’d even mentioned the alcohol Spike made sure he could smell on himself before he came back, pitiful decoy as it may be, it would be easier to dismiss his concern, easier to pull away and tell him to mind his own business. As it is, though, it takes all that Spike has to let go of his boy and step away.

“Nothing,” he says again. Tries to smirk but his mouth refuses to cooperate. “Be healed by morning.”

He doesn’t look at Angel on his way to the kitchen, afraid that Angel would be able to tell – and he _would_ tell Connor, wouldn’t he? He’d be all too happy to. He’s been warning Connor against Spike since the very first day, wants the boy for himself – of course he does. Angelus was never one for sharing, Spike knows that quite well.

His hand is shaking when he pulls a jar of blood from the fridge. Neither of them followed him, and he can hear them talking quietly in the other room. Talking about a phone that didn’t ring. Talking about him. About his half-truths and lies. 

As the blood warms, he passes a hand over his face, drops it to his chest and scratches absently. In the other room, there are goodbyes and thank you’s. He wonders how much Angel enjoyed having Connor to himself. Wonders if he wished Spike wouldn’t come back.

Of course he must have.

Spike is not losing Connor over what happened, he promised himself as much. But if he loses him to Angel, at least he can blame Angel for it, can hate him rather than himself. Hate always makes things so much easier.

*

Blinking furiously, Connor watches Spike step over to the kitchen and wonders if maybe he’s still asleep and dreaming. None of this is making much sense. He turns to Angel, who is looking at him with a curious expression, like he’s worried about him rather than Spike.

“How long was he here before you woke me up?” Connor asks quietly, because it’s just weird that Angel didn’t say anything to Spike. Maybe they talked while he was asleep? “And weren’t they supposed to call you if he was back?”

“He’d just walked in,” Angel replies as he fishes out his phone from his pocket. He peers at the small screen and frowns. “And apparently this thing is off. Sorry. Not sure how that happened.”

Connor shrugs, looking back at the kitchen. Spike’s back is toward him, and there’s no doubt in Connor’s mind that he’ll be able to hear every word. He’s fine with it.

“He was lying, wasn’t he?” The words are quiet, but he doesn’t try to hide the hurt.

“About getting in trouble, probably not. About you having nothing to worry about, that’s more doubtful.”

Connor’s eyes return to his father. Somehow, he expected Angel to be as upset as he is. This cold acceptance is jarring.

“Don’t you want to know where he was?” he asks, even more quietly still.

For a moment, it’s almost like Angel isn’t sure what to answer. In the end, he walks to Connor, rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says, a lopsided little smile pulling at his lips. “If he’s going to talk to someone, it’ll be you. He came back for you.”

He finishes with a light squeeze to Connor’s shoulder. Connor nods, then without thinking steps closer and hugs his father. Angel is very still against him, like he didn’t expect this and doesn’t know how to respond. Like Spike, just moments ago.

“Thanks,” Connor says as he pulls back. “For helping me look for him, and for staying with me.”

Angel just smiles. “If you need help kicking sense into him, you know where to find me. Try to get some more rest, all right?”

Another light touch to Connor’s shoulder and they’re saying goodbye. Connor waits until the door has closed on his father before he joins Spike in the kitchen. He’s standing in front of the window, looking out at the awakening city below them. Connor slides his arms around him and presses his chest to Spike’s back.

“I really was worried,” he whispers against the back of Spike’s neck.

Spike starts to shrug, but the movement ends abruptly, like he’s afraid Connor will let go. “Didn’t mean for you to be,” he says gruffly. “I’m fine.”

“I missed you,” Connor tries again.

For a long moment, Spike doesn’t answer. When he finally does, the edge of a blade hides behind his words, so cutting Connor almost thinks he can smell blood. He’s just not sure if it’s his own or Spike’s.

“Thought Daddy kept you company.”

“He helped me look for you,” Connor replies, tightening his hold on Spike just a little bit. His voice hardens without his consent, but maybe it’s better this way. “And if this was all about punishing me because I went to that stupid dinner with—”

Spike breaks free, turns around to cast a deep frown at Connor. “Punishing you?” he repeats, like he doesn’t understand the words. “Of course it wasn’t about punishing _you_. I didn’t—” He stops abruptly, looks away as he passes a hand through his hair. “I reek,” he mutters. “Gonna take a shower. Why don’t you get some rest like Daddy said.”

He walks away without a look back. Connor’s eyes sting, and so does his pride. He takes deep breaths in, tries to calm down. He’s been playing nice so far but Spike is not making things easy. 

Hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly, he strides to the bedroom. The door to the master bathroom is closed. Locked. His anger only grows. One well-placed kick and the lock yields. The door bounces back against the wall and broken tiles tinkle like bells as they fall to the floor. Connor couldn’t care less.

He walks to the shower. Spike is very still behind the opaque glass. Connor slides the shower door open, a rant ready to spill from his lips – and forgets all about it when he sees the claw marks on Spike’s chest. He reaches in before he knows it, uncaring of the water drenching his arm and shoulder or falling out to the floor. Spike flinches back before his fingers make contact. Connor looks up at him, anger forgotten in front of his renewed worry. It looks like something tried to claw Spike’s heart right out of his chest.

“What happened?” he asks yet again, his voice turning almost pleading.

Spike has raised his arms in front of him, like he can hide the healing scars. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he mutters, meeting Connor’s eyes defiantly. “It’s nothing.”

In the blink of an eye, Connor undresses, abandoning sweat pants and t-shirt on the wet carpet. He climbs into the shower, closes the door behind him, and there’s no place for Spike to run anymore, no place for him to hide when Connor takes hold of his wrists and tugs his arms away from his chest. Spike’s entire body turns rigid and he raises his chin, sneering down at Connor. 

Connor can see the ugly words in his eyes before he even voices them; he stops Spike before he can say something they’ll both regret. Stepping closer, he presses his mouth to Spike’s, pushes his tongue in. For a moment, Spike tries to pull away. He growls, turns his head, even pretends to bite at Connor’s tongue and lips. When Connor doesn’t relent, though, the fight slowly drains out of him until he’s still and trembling against Connor’s body. 

Letting go of his wrists, Connor slides his hand between them, brushes his fingers to Spike’s chest along the cuts there. The flesh has started healing, but he can feel the raised skin beneath his fingertips. Something aches inside his own chest. When he breaks the kiss, Spike’s eyes are shut tight.

“This,” Connor breathes against his lips as he follows the longest cut with his thumb, “is not nothing. Why are you lying to me?”

He wishes his voice was stronger as he accuses Spike of lying, wishes he didn’t sound so wounded. So young. But Spike opens his eyes and, for the first time that night, moves toward Connor first, arms weaving around him, mouth brushing a kiss to his lips like an apology. He rests his cheek against Connor’s shoulder, so lightly Connor can barely feel it. 

Without a thought, Connor curls his free hand at the back of Spike’s head, pushes him tighter against him. “If you don’t tell me who hurt you,” he murmurs, “how am I going to make them pay?”

Spike chuckles soundlessly against him – at least, Connor thinks that’s what the shaking of his body means.

“My beautiful boy,” Spike says, words brushing against Connor’s neck like a caress, and it’s still not an answer, it still doesn’t explain anything, but Connor suddenly breathes a little more easily.

“Your boy,” he agrees, slowly sliding his hand down Spike’s chest. “Even when you scare the hell out of me.”

Connor can’t remember Spike ever not being hard when he first reached for him, and somehow a little bit of worry returns as he cups his hand over Spike’s limp cock. Gentle touches, slow and teasing at first, stronger when Spike grows hard in his hand. Spike bucks forward, pressing his thigh against Connor’s cock. Connor presses back, then takes hold of his dick, slides it against Spike’s. A little awkwardly, he strokes both of them inside his fist, expecting Spike’s hand to join his and help, like they did the first time what feels like ages ago. But Spike’s hands remain on Connor’s back, holding him close but nothing more. Connor finds a better grip and accelerates his pace, each of Spike’s quiet, almost pleading moans urging him on.

Afterwards, when Connor has washed the come off both of them, when he’s dried both himself and Spike, pulled him into bed and wrapped his body around him, he lets himself feel the tightness that has wrapped around his heart. Something feels _wrong_. It’s not like Spike to be so passive, especially after he was just as uncharacteristically aggressive. Whatever Spike said, something happened, and it wasn’t nothing.

When the alarm buzzes behind him, Connor reaches back to turn it off before curling again around Spike. “I’ll call in sick today,” he murmurs against Spike’s temple. “Stay with—”

“You’ve only been there for a couple of weeks,” Spike replies, almost chiding. “You shouldn’t play hookie.” 

Connor’s jaw clenches tight, right along with his heart. All of the previous week, Spike tried to cajole him into skipping work every morning. And now that Connor offers to stay with him…

Feeling very cold suddenly, he slips out of bed and gets dressed. He can feel Spike’s eyes on him, but he’s too hurt to look back. Spike doesn’t say a word until Connor is ready and at the bedroom door.

“Love you.”

Closing his eyes in relief, Connor comes back to the bed, presses a kiss to Spike’s lips, whispers the same words back at him.

Ten minutes later, he stops in Angel’s office on his way out of the building.

“Something happened but he still won’t talk to me. Can you check on him sometime today?”

*

After two days of cancelled appointments, one of them spent brooding and the second looming over chanting shamans, Angel is stuck in his office until the middle of the afternoon, receiving client after client, gritting his teeth the whole way through.

Every time his door opens, he expects Spike to walk in. They’re one conversation and a couple of fights overdue, and Spike isn’t _that_ patient. Or at least, Angel didn’t think he was, but in the end he has to go find him. 

He doesn’t knock. After all, Connor invited him to go up. Hands fisted in his pockets, he follows his nose to the bedroom. A quiet growl is rising from his throat before he even enters.

“You give my kid cancer,” he says, standing at the foot of the bed and glaring down at Spike, “and I’ll rip your lungs out through your nose before I stake you.”

Spike’s only reaction is to tap the ashes from his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. He’s sitting up against the headboard, an arm thrown behind his head, naked and very clearly pissed off. Angel's eyes trail over the marks on his chest and he adds another question to his list.

“Of course he ran back to _Daddy_ ,” Spike sneers. “Argue with me, run back to you. Bet you _love_ that, don’t you, Daddy?”

Angel crosses his arms and scoffs. “Yeah, and _you_ never came to me because he wouldn’t talk to you.”

Spike looking away to crush what’s left of the cigarette in the ashtray seems like a small victory, but bittersweet.

“So where have you been?”

Another sneer. “Elsewhere.”

Angel sighs, rolls his eyes. “Maybe he won’t kick some sense back into you, but I’ve got no problem with it.”

“And maybe,” Spike cuts in, sliding off the bed and coming to stand in front of Angel, “I thought I’d give you a chance to score and put him in your bed for a night.” He bares his teeth into something that in no way resembles a smile. “Doesn’t look like you got lucky though. Pity. I never did tell you how good he is in bed, did I?”

Stunned speechless, Angel stares at him. Spike can’t actually _mean_ that, can he? He often says amazingly stupefying nonsense when he's mad, but even this is over the top for him.

“So do you want to hear it, then?” Spike says, eyes narrowed to slits. “Want me to tell you how good he’s getting at deep throating? How ‘bout the way he moans when I—”

It’s only when Spike looks up at him from the floor, bloodied lips curled into a smirk, that Angel realizes he has just lashed out; only when he feels his fangs cutting into his own lips that he notices he has vamped out.

“Why are you doing this?” he growls. “Why on Earth would you—”

Laughing, Spike gets to his feet. “Why? Because I know you.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slinks closer to Angel, leaving less than an inch between their bodies. Tilting his head to one side, he bites down on his bottom lip and bats his eyelashes. “Because you won’t ask, but you want to know. Don’t you, Daddy? Don’t you dream about your pretty boy on his knees for you, pretty pink lips around your—” 

This time, Angel doesn’t stop at one blow. He pushes Spike against the wall and punches him, face and stomach, his vision a blur of red that has nothing to do with the blood staining his fists and Spike’s face and chest.

It takes long minutes before he realizes Spike isn’t defending himself. Even then, it’s hard to stop. He presses his hands to either side of Spike’s head, holds him in place against the wall and stares into blue eyes that look so much like Connor’s when he waited for that blade that something inside Angel _aches_.

He shakes away the game face and takes a sharp breath, trying to calm down before he asks again, “Why are you doing this?” 

Spike doesn’t reply, just glares at him, and it’s all Angel can do to stop himself from banging his too proud, too empty head against the wall. 

“What did you do,” he says, voice shaking with the strain not to yell, “that you think you need to be punished?”

Spike snarls at him. “Fuck you.”

“Answer me, boy,” Angel snaps, shaking him.

Spike licks his lips, and for a second Angel thinks he will reply. That hope is short lived. “Fuck you Daddy,” Spike says, enunciating each word precisely like his mouth wasn’t full of blood.

Angel’s blood boils again. His fingers clench on the sides of Spike’s head, nails digging into his scalp. “All right,” he says very quietly. “If that’s what you want, you can have it.”

He lets go of Spike and takes two steps back. He drops his hands to his belt and pulls it out of the loops in a whisper of leather and expensive cotton. It’s been more than a century since he curled his hand over a metal buckle, wrapped heavy leather around his knuckles. 

He looks at Spike, raises an eyebrow. Spike blinks and drops his gaze. Very slowly, he pushes away from the wall. Turns around. Presses both hands to the wall and leans down, body already tense and waiting for the first caress of the belt.

Angel’s hand tightens on the leather and he wonders – what could possibly have happened for Spike to want this? Need this? The last time they… _played_ , Angel’s hand to Spike’s naked ass, it wasn’t like this. Spike _needed_ then too, but there wasn’t this sense of despair clinging to him, to his smell, like salt on the tip of Angel’s tongue.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he mutters, coming closer to Spike. 

His fingers relax. The belt slips from his hand, falling to the floor and hitting the carpet with a muted thud. When he rests his hand in the center of Spike’s back, Spike bows his head and starts shaking. 

Angel sighs, anger forgotten, at least for now. “Enough games. You’re going to tell me what happened, boy. And you’re going to tell me _now_.”

*

The blows Spike expected, the blows he’s been hunting for since Angel walked in the room don’t fall. Instead of the whistling of leather parting the air, he hears the buckle hit the floor. Instead of the caress of the belt, it’s the touch of Angel’s hand that makes him flinch. 

He knows, at that first touch, that he won’t get what he wanted. What he deserves. He closes his eyes tight, tries to stop shaking, to gather his strength around him like a cloak. If Angel won’t do this, Spike will go out, find a fight or ten, and—

Angel’s hand slides up his back, settling at the nape of his neck, like he can guess what Spike is thinking and is warning him he won’t let go. “Enough games. You’re going to tell me what happened, boy. And you’re going to tell me _now_.”

Spike starts shaking his head, but Angel’s fingers tighten, pull him away from the wall.

“Look at me,” Angel demands, his voice low and tight, and the beginning of a growl isn’t very far.

Looking at him is the last thing Spike wants to do. If Angel didn’t see it before, surely he’ll know now that he’s looking for what’s wrong. And then…

And then Spike will lose everything. Everyone. Again.

He twists away, snarling, and strides to the dresser. He tugs the first drawer open – only to have Angel slam it shut again.

“I said _look_ at me.”

Spike can hear the demon in Angel’s voice, and he reacts without thinking, sliding into his demon mask as well. He still doesn’t look at Angel and tries to move past him. Angel backhands him across the mouth, throwing him down onto the bed. Before Spike can move, Angel climbs on, trapping Spike’s hands above his head, pinning his thighs to the bed. Spike tries to push him off, but this last ditch effort is half-hearted, and he knows Angel can see he’s giving up. Angel’s face smoothes out, his eyes turn brown again; Spike follows suit.

“What did you do?” Angel asks very quietly.

Spike opens his mouth, but no words come out. He has no idea where to start.

When Angel rolls off him, Spike doesn’t know whether to be relieved he won’t have to tell or scared that Angel is already giving up on him. It’s quickly clear that he’s wrong on both counts, though. Angel grabs his shoulders, pulls him, tugs him, until Angel is leaning back against the headboard, his arms wrapped around Spike, holding him to his chest. 

Spike wishes he could feel humiliated, or pissed off, or anything really other than safe.

“What did you do, my boy?” Angel asks again. “Tell Daddy.”

Now that Spike’s face is against Angel’s chest – now that he doesn’t have to look at him – the words finally come.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t—”

A dry sob catches in his throat. He’s not going to cry, damn it. He’s not _that_ pathetic. 

“You couldn’t what?” Angel pushes, his hand sliding up and down Spike’s back, the petting as soothing as it is unexpected.

“Stop them. I couldn’t stop them.”

“What did they do to you?” Angel breathes.

Spike has known ever since he came back that he would have to admit to this eventually. He wishes he hadn’t come back – but he also knows he couldn’t have stayed away.

“Promise you won’t hate me,” he says, voice shaking, and he wants to kick himself for it. That’s a stupid thing to say. _Promise you won’t hate me **more**_ would have been more accurate.

But Angel plays the game, runs his fingers through Spike’s hair even as he says, “I won’t hate you.”

The lie is bittersweet to hear, but it’s not enough.

“Promise…”

If he has to tell someone, he can tell Angel. Angel will understand. He’s been there. But Connor… Connor wouldn’t get it. Spike has been trying to convince himself he’d be all right if he lost him, but that, too, is a lie.

“Promise you won’t tell him.”

“Spike…” Angel tightens his fingers on Spike’s hair and pulls, trying to draw his head up, but Spike resists and presses his face to Angel’s neck. 

He hates that he’s so damn scared. Hates that after everything that happened, everything he went through, he’s back to square one. He remembers square one. He remembers just how lonely it is, too.

“They took it,” he mumbles. “They said I didn’t need it to work with Angelus. Said it’d make things easier for me.”

Angel’s hand slips to the back of Spike’s neck and pulls him up. Spike tries to resist again but he can’t. All he can do is close his eyes when he sees the glint of understanding in Angel’s gaze.

“Your soul. They took your soul.” 

Spike shivers at the ice covering Angel’s words.

“Yes Daddy.”

*

For a moment, Angel doesn’t know what’s stronger – his anger at what happened to Spike, or his fear for what could have happened to Connor. The fear doesn’t last, though. As Angelus first, as Angel much later, he always reproached Spike for not being like him, without a soul or with one. Always mocked him, taunted him.

He’s never been happier that Spike is different.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs, drawing Spike back to him.

Spike is shaking even harder now, his hands so tight on Angel’s shoulders that Angel can feel every one of his fingernails digging in through the fabric of his shirt. “I tried to stop them,” he says, his voice as hoarse as though he’d been shouting.

Angel turns his head and presses his lips to the top of Spike’s forehead. “I know.”

“I didn’t want it gone.”

Angel closes his eyes and sighs. “I _know_.” He does know, does understand, better than he wished he did. And he does believe Spike, without a moment of hesitation. Angel never asked how Spike got his soul back, but he doubts it was as simple as asking for one from the first witch he met.

“They said…” A sob breaks Spike’s voice. Angel keeps waiting for the scent of salt to hit his nose, for tears to soak through his shirt, but neither comes. “They said I can’t get it back. Not ever.” 

If Angel were still afraid about what Spike might do now, the simple fact that he worries about not being able to get his soul back would be reassuring. But, somewhat to his own surprise, Angel is _not_ afraid. Instead, he aches, Spike’s distress even more painful because of Angel’s certitude that, if the roles were reversed, getting his soul back would be the last thing he’d want. 

“It’s all right,” he says softly, running a soothing hand up and down Spike’s back, always stopping short of his naked ass. _That_ wouldn't help anything. “Everything will be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”

Spike’s words come out as a whisper, but even so they are filled with pain edged with despair. “But it will be. I’m gonna hurt him. And that will be my fault.”

Angel’s eyes open abruptly. He stares up at the ceiling as his hand clenches at the back of Spike’s neck. “ _What_?”

From anyone else, the sound that rises next would be a whimper. But Spike doesn’t whimper – not from pain. “You’ve got to stop me from hurting him.”

“You mean… Connor?” Angel’s fear is back, as sudden, as unexpected as Spike’s words. “Why would you—”

Spike pushes away from Angel, kneeling over his legs. His eyes are gleaming wet when he shakes his head, but there are still no tears. He clutches at his chest, and Angel knows abruptly who made those scratch marks over his heart.

“I always do, don’t I? Always hurt the people I love. Only stopped when I got the soul. And now it’s gone. And I’m gonna—”

Angel grabs his wrist and stops him from tearing his skin to shreds. “No you’re not,” he says as strongly as he can manage.

Spike shakes his head again, tries to tug his hand free but Angel doesn’t let go.

“You don’t know that,” he spits. “You _can’t_ know that. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

The claim takes Angel by surprise and he frowns. “Don’t I? I’ve seen you—”

“No you haven’t,” Spike cuts in. He’s growing more agitated still, and Angel catches his other wrist to hold him in place. “You haven’t,” he repeats a little louder. “You’ve seen me kill people that meant nothing to me. Torture people I hated. You’ve never seen me hurt the ones I love. I never hurt you like I hurt them.”

Angel blinks, unsure what to make of that. “Spike—”

But Spike isn’t listening. He’s trying to pull away from Angel again, and the only way Angel knows to stop him is to draw him to his chest once more, arms tight around him.

“You don’t understand!” Spike struggles, but not nearly hard enough to break free. Angel holds him even more tightly. “I can’t do it again! If I hurt someone else I love I—”

“You won’t,” Angel all but croons. “You’re not going to hurt him. You think I’d let you anywhere near my son if I had even the slightest doubt you would?”

As though a switch had been flipped, Spike stops trying to pull free and grows very still against Angel. He’s breathing hard; he always breathes when he’s upset. It used to drive Angelus mad. Angel would rather feel him breathe against his neck than cry.

“He’s your boy,” Spike whispers, and somehow it sounds like a question. There are a lot of things Angel isn’t sure about at that moment, but this, he has no trouble answering.

“So are you. Nothing’s changed.”

Spike starts moving again as suddenly as he stopped, but this time instead of trying to move away he shifts against Angel as though he were trying to get closer still. His mouth trails over Angel’s neck and jaw, his hands slip between their bodies and fumble over the buttons of his shirt. He’s rocking against Angel, and it doesn’t take long before their cocks start growing hard together, separated only by the double layer of Angel’s pants and boxers.

Angel loosens his grip over Spike, drops his hands to his hips, lets himself feel him move for just a second – and then he stops him, hand tight and unyielding, probably hard enough to bruise, but Angel would rather explain bruises than the alternative. Spike’s moan is a caress on his lips, almost enough to make him give in. 

“You’re still my boy,” Angel says, catching Spike’s gaze and willing him to believe he means it. “But you’re still my boy’s boyfriend, too.”

Spike lifts his head and blinks. For a short moment, Angel thinks that he has found the right words and it’ll be enough. Better words than the punishment Spike was seeking earlier. Better words than letting him – letting himself – hurt Connor that way. But the moment passes, ending when Spike’s eyes fill with a fear Angel knows only too well. He has seen it before, in those same eyes. 

“Daddy _please_.”

He can hear the fear too, can all but taste it, bitter as spoiled blood on his tongue. The fear of being rejected. Abandoned. The fear of not belonging anymore. 

Even as he kisses Spike, lets him undress him, curls a hand around his cock and calls him his boy, Angel knows he’s doing the right thing. He also knows it’s a mistake. Connor will hate him for this, will hate both of them. And maybe part of him hopes he will. Let Connor go back to his parents – to his world. Let him be safe away from them. 

Spike was right, Angel thinks as he pushes inside his body, plucks a whispered “Daddy” from his lips with a kiss; they always hurt the ones they love.

*

Two hours before the end of his work day, Connor gives up. He’s been fretting all day, wondering what could have happened to Spike, aching that Spike wouldn’t tell him, worried that he might not be there when Connor returns to the apartment. He finally approaches his supervisor with a story about how he’s not feeling so good and could he possibly leave early, just this once, please. She waves him off with a comment on how pale he is, and how she knew something was off because he hasn’t smiled all day. 

Connor hurries away thinking that, if he had known it would be so easy, he would have asked to leave much earlier. And as soon as he gets home, he wishes even more he had done so. Then maybe he wouldn’t have been greeted by the unmistakable sounds of sex.   
His hand is shaking as he pushes the door closed. He’s not trying to be quiet, but they don’t seem to hear the click of the latch. He, on the other hand, can hear everything.

His legs feel weak. He leans back against the door and lets them fold until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up in front of him like he can hide behind them and pretend this isn’t happening.

The bedroom door is just across from him. It’s open and he can see inside, can see the edge of the bed, and the sheet moving along with the quiet creaking of the mattress. He can’t see them, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Ragged moans are slithering out of the bedroom and toward him. Connor had never heard his father sound like this; he’d never imagined he even could sound like this. He’d never heard Spike whimper either, and the quiet, choked up noises make Connor want to go to him and run a soothing hand over his face, make him want to kiss away the tears he imagines. He can even almost smell them.

He doesn’t move, though, just remains very still, his hands clenched on his knees. He closes his eyes so he won’t see the bed move anymore, but the sounds remain, and images emerge in Connor’s mind. He opens his eyes again and shakes his head, but the images stay right there, playing out to the soundtrack rising from the bedroom. Angel’s hands, so wide and strong, caressing Spike, holding him down, holding him close. Spike’s mouth pressing wordless whispers against Angel’s broad chest. Spike’s legs tight around Angel. Their hips moving together and—

“Harder.”

The word cracks like thunder, startling Connor enough that he shivers. The images in his head accelerate to match the sound of the headboard now banging rhythmically against the wall. Connor and Spike have chipped the plaster there already. It sounds like the dent is getting worse. Connor could swear he can taste the dust on the back of his tongue.

“Like that, boy?”

Connor squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on his bottom lip. The pain does nothing to dampen the sparks coursing down his spine and setting his nerves on fire. He just has the time to think that he’ll never hear Angel says that word again without thinking of this moment – and then the world tilts just a little more on its axis.

“Daddy _please_.”

Connor gets to his feet so fast that he’s dizzy for a couple of seconds – or it might be that his brain doesn’t have enough blood left to function, seeing how all of it seems to have migrated to his cock. He rests a hand to the door to steady himself, bows his head, and tries to convince himself that it’s the need in Spike’s voice that got him hard – and nothing else.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he drops his hand to the handle and opens the door. His vision is still blurred as he slips out of the apartment. He keeps a hand on the wall all the way to Angel’s door. The irony that he’d seek comfort here isn’t lost on him, but he just doesn’t know where else to go. Besides, sooner or later Angel will come back, and then Connor can put his fist in his father’s face.

Pacing through the living room, he refuses to acknowledge his hard on, refuses to even adjust himself. His dick and his heart ache just as much. As time passes, as the sun starts playing hide and seek behind the buildings beyond the windows, he slowly calms down enough to stop pacing. At first he sits on the sofa, but he can’t see the door from there. He wants to be able to see Angel as soon as he walks in. Wants Angel to see him. Wants to know if the guilt will already be there, inscribed on his face, or if it’ll take seeing Connor for realization to sink in. Feet up on the coffee table, fingers linked on his stomach, he waits. Part of him is sort of glad he doesn’t have a stake. Another part whispers it wouldn’t take much time to break the armchair to pieces and fashion one.

It feels like ages before the door finally creaks open and Angel comes in. His gaze is directed at the floor, his brow furrowed; Connor can’t tell if there’s any thread of guilt in his scent, the smell of blood and come is just too thick. His shirt hangs unbuttoned over his chest, and Connor’s eyes hone in on the bloodied bite mark at the crook of his shoulder. Angel takes three steps in before freezing and looking up. He blinks when he sees Connor, as though not sure he’s truly there. 

“Connor?” he says, his voice wary and low.

Connor has had time to think about what he’d do or say. A year ago, he probably would have gone for blood; now, he’ll settle for pain. “After the night it rained fire,” he says, relieved that his words aren't shaking as hard as he thought they would, “when she told me you knew, I wondered how much you were hurting.” He pauses just long enough for Angel to take another step closer. “I guess now I know.”

Angel closes his eyes for a second. When they open again, they’re filled with equal parts pain and guilt. Connor can’t bear to look at his father anymore. He jumps to his feet. He’d run for the door, but Angel stands in the way, and Connor doesn’t trust himself near him yet. He turns his back on him, facing the windows. Fights back the urge to throw the armchair through, shatter the spelled glass, and watch his father scurry back to the shadows.

“Connor…” 

This time, the word is a sigh. Connor waits for more, waits for an explanation – any explanation, or even just an apology – but Angel doesn’t say another word. His presence looms at Connor’s back; Connor could never ignore him for long. 

He crosses his arms and faces him again, voice as tense as every muscle in his body when he asks, “Was it payback?”

Angel blinks again, then frowns. “What?”

“Was this payback for—” One day. One day he won’t trip over her name anymore, won’t feel that surge of affection and pain, a kiss to the cheek and punch to the guts delivered together. One day, but not today. “—for Cordelia?” 

Angel’s reaction is immediate, too spontaneous for lies, and for this, at least, Connor is grateful. “No! Connor, God, no.”

As though to convince Connor of the truth of his words, Angel comes to him, rests a tentative hand on his shoulder. Connor flinches and closes his fists. He hasn’t decided yet whether he’s going to hit him or not. Looking at his father’s face, he tries not to imagine it covered in blood.

Angel’s hand tightens almost to the point of pain. “Is that why you slept with her?” he asks, too quietly for Connor to read any emotion in the words. “Payback for me kicking you out?”

Connor grits his teeth, then shakes his head. “No. She—” There is that punch again. He gives another shake of his head. “No,” he says again. “It wasn’t about you.”

Angel looks at him for a long moment, then nods. “And this wasn’t about you,” he says very slowly. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. But I’m not sorry I did this. Spike needed me.”

Looking away, Connor flinches again, then tries to shrug off Angel’s hand, but Angel doesn’t let go. He squeezes gently until Connor looks up at him again. “That doesn’t mean he loves you any less,” he says with just the ghost of a pained smile, then adds in a whisper, “And that doesn’t mean _I_ love you any less either.”

He finally lets go and Connor steps back at once. Angel is talking about love – about how the two of them love him – but it’s something else entirely that Connor is hearing. Something that gives him pause. Something that drains the anger right out of him. Something that reminds him he has known – loved – Spike for weeks, but it’s been a lot longer for Angel. The sting of the betrayal lessens somewhat; maybe someday Spike will trust him – need him – like he trusts and needs Angel. Maybe he’ll even love him as much.

“Remember when I asked if you loved him and you wouldn’t say yes?” he asks quietly, and doesn’t wait for Angel to respond before he finishes. “I don’t think you’re fooling anyone but yourself.”

Angel turns away. Shaking his head, he walks over to the cabinet and pours himself a drink. “It had nothing to do with—”

“I heard him, Dad.” Somehow, it’s easier to admit this when Angel isn’t looking at him. “I heard you. It took me long enough to learn, but I’m pretty sure I can recognize love when I hear it now.”

Angel stills with the glass halfway to his lips. He lowers it again and says without looking back, his voice small and a little bit scared, “You… heard?”

It feels wrong, it always feels wrong to hear fear in his father’s voice. Connor speaks fast, words bubbling out of him before he even realizes he means every single one of them. “It doesn’t matter. If he still loves me, the rest doesn’t matter. But I think I have the right to know.”

The empty glass clanks lightly on the cabinet before Angel turns back to him, wariness glinting once more in his eyes. “Know what?”

Connor takes a deep breath and braces himself. “What happened to Spike?”

*

Angel’s parting words echo through Spike’s mind long after he has left. 

_Whatever you tell him, don’t lie._

And Spike can see he’s right. Lying about what happened would be of no use. Spike’s shower, the clean sheets he puts on the bed, the three cigarettes and the scented candle he lights in the bedroom – none of it will fool Connor for a minute, and he knows it. It’s their bedroom. Up to this morning, it smelled like them – the two of them together, their scents mixed so intricately it was like they were one and the same. And now…

Now it smells exactly like what happened in this bed. And Spike has no idea how he’s going to explain it. No idea either how long it’ll take for Connor to get the hell out and run to – well, not Angel, not this time, or at least not for comfort. Revenge, maybe, and from what Spike gathered, Connor used to be very good at that. But he’s not that boy, not anymore, and Spike’s money is on this boy running back home to his parents. The human ones. The ones he can be pretty sure won’t fuck his boyfriend behind his back.

Wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that both belong to Connor and smell like him, Spike goes to the kitchen and feeds. He usually waits for Connor, sits at the island with him since he doesn’t mind Spike’s liquid diet – at least not as long as Spike doesn’t dunk anything in his blood; _that_ always makes him screw up in nose in a rather adorable way, not that Spike would say so. Tonight, though, he’d rather have a full belly before Connor walks in.

Before the storm finishes destroying everything Spike so foolishly thought was his.

He’s seated at the kitchen island and working on his third mug when Connor walks in. He hears the door open, hears quiet steps coming up at his back, stop behind him – and still he is startled when Connor’s arms slide around him, when a kiss is pressed to the back of his head. He relaxes for a second. Catches himself hoping – he should know better by now – that it’ll all be ok. 

Connor’s lips caress his earlobe, his neck, stop at the crook of his shoulder. When they touch the bite marks there, Spike closes his eyes.

“You still smell like him,” Connor says very quietly, so quietly Spike can’t tell what emotions hide behind the words.

The mug clanks softly when Spike puts it down. Steeling himself, he turns around on the stool, faces Connor. His face is blank except for small lines at the corners of his eyes, his mouth. He’s much too young to look this old. This worried.

Spike doesn’t say anything, but he does let out a quiet, muffled sound when Connor slips a gentle hand to the back of his neck and draws him closer, their cheeks pressed together.

“Smell like him too, pet.” His voice is only shaking a little. “Guess you talked to him, then.”

Connor slips his arms around him again. Very slowly, Spike does the same; he could weep and laugh both when Connor lets him.

“Yeah. We… talked.”

The hesitation is enough to make Spike ask, “You fought?”

“I can’t say I didn’t want to hurt him,” Connor says with a little snort. His hands tighten over Spike’s t-shirt, pulling him closer. “But I didn’t put my fist in his face.”

Spike pulls back so he can see him. So he can offer his face to Connor’s fists.

“Gonna put it in mine?” he asks, almost begs.

Connor shakes his head and smiles, a sad little smile that makes Spike ache down to the very soul he doesn’t have anymore. Anger is just a blink away – anger that Connor doesn’t sound angry. Anger that he doesn’t care enough to be angry. Spike hangs on to his calm by his fingernails. Better a Connor who doesn’t care enough than no Connor at all.

Still, he can’t help but twist the knife. He asks, “Why not?”

He hates how hurt he sounds. Hates that Connor flinches, like he’s the one at fault here. It makes him want to hide. Makes him want to run. Makes him want to vamp out, lash out, and no, no, he’ll never hurt this boy – his boy – he’ll tear his own heart out first.

“Because,” Connor says, his eyes searching Spike’s face, “something happened.” His mouth twists unhappily. “Besides _that_. And whatever it is, Angel said it’s not your fault and I don’t think he’d lie if it was.”

Spike couldn’t say what surprises him most – that there’s no venom in Connor’s voice when he says his father’s name, or that Angel didn’t explain why he – they – betrayed him. 

“He didn’t tell you?” he breathes.

Connor grimaces again. “No.” His tone hardens, diamonds shining hard and cold in his words. “Are you going to?”

Spike shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything. He’s heard stakes, blades and blood in Connor’s voice when he says Angelus’ name; he never wants to hear the same when Connor talk to him, not if he can help it. He can deal with Connor’s hate if it’s a result of sleeping with Angel, but not for losing his soul. One was his fault. The other...

“You know what?” Connor says as he pulls away, just out of Spike’s reach, “It hurts. That you told him and not me? It hurts just as much as you fucking him.”

Spike flinches and drops his gaze to the carpet. “Pet I—”

“Let me finish.” 

The words lash out like a whip; Spike thinks of leather, and blows that didn't fall earlier. He wishes they had, if only as punishment for the pain dripping from Connor now. 

“It hurts,” he says again. “And I hope you’ll tell me when you’re ready. But whether you tell me or not, I still love you.”

Spike blinks and looks up at him. He can hardly believe what he just heard, and almost thinks he’s imagined it.

And then Connor says it again, words as soft, as trembling as the hand he raises to caress Spike’s face.

Another blink, and Spike slides off the stool and steps to him. “Love you so bloody much.” He almost chokes on the words, sounds like a pathetic sod, but he couldn’t care less. He presses his mouth to Connor’s, kisses him hard, and remembers only when Connor’s tongue pushes into his mouth that he was just drinking blood. Connor doesn’t even seem to notice and only kisses him deeper. Spike didn’t think it was possible for him to love his boy any more, but in that instant, he does. Loves him for being able to accept all of him – the idiotic man who still turns to the closest thing he has to a father when he’s hurt and scared, and the demon who hurts those he loves without even trying.

Still pressing feverish kisses to Connor’s mouth, to his face, Spike tears at his clothes. A button or two fall victim to his too-eager hands. The entire time, he’s pushing Connor back toward the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom.

“Want you to fuck me,” he mumbles against Connor’s lips, then nips at them with blunt teeth. “Please, luv.”

He might just die if Connor said no.

But all Connor says – with his eyes, his hands, his lips and tongue, and soon his cock – is _yes_. And _I love you_. And _always_. And Spike would never have hoped it would be so easy to believe him. He’d never have thought he could be so lucky. If he let himself think, he would wonder how the universe will tip the balance again next.

*

As he first pushes inside Spike, Connor realizes instantly why it’s so easy, why Spike’s body yields to the intrusion as sweetly as though they’d been fucking all day. It’s all he can do not to come right at that moment.

His body shakes, his arms almost giving in where they hold him up above Spike. Spike’s legs tighten around him, try to pull him forward, and Connor has to close his eyes tight and take deep breaths to calm down.

“Luv, _please_.”

Spike whimpers for him like he whimpered for Angel. Connor only shakes harder. He lowers himself to Spike’s mouth and kisses him hard so he won’t hear him plead anymore, so he won’t remember what he heard earlier. It’d be easier if he couldn’t smell Angel all around them behind the smell of laundered sheets.

“I don’t care what happened,” he breathes against Spike’s lips, and he’s not sure whom he’s most trying to convince, Spike or himself. 

He does care, and he hurts, and he’s jealous, but he also understands. Spike blinks up at him, brow furrowed, and Connor continues.

“I love you. I really do. And if you need him—”

“Need _you_ ,” Spike cuts in, the words ragged and breathless. He bucks his hips up. 

Groaning, Connor presses a hand to the center of his chest and Spike stills again. “No, let me say this.” He’s all but pleading, because he knows that if he doesn’t say it now, he’ll never manage to do it. “He said… he said you needed him. If that means there’s something I can’t give you and he can, something you need—”

Spike is trembling as hard as he is. “Connor, luv—”

“Then it’s ok,” he finishes, vision blurry and eyes stinging. “Go to him. Just don’t ever lie about it.”

Spike’s hands slide from Connor’s shoulders to his head, cupping it as though he were delicate crystal, drawing him close. His lips trail all over Connor’s face, brushing against his eyelids and at the corner of his eyes where they are wet, caressing his cheeks and chin, finally settling on his mouth. When his tongue slips past Connor’s lips, Connor pushes his cock back inside him before it can finish to slip out. Spike fucks his mouth with his tongue, and Connor follows his rhythm with his cock, content to keep things slow and gentle while he gets a grip on himself and on his feelings. He doesn’t _want_ to share Spike, not with anyone, but if the alternative is to lose him because Connor can’t be all that he needs, then he’ll swallow back his jealousy and his pride, and he’ll share. Even if it means sharing with Angel.

When Spike’s hands start roaming over him again, leaving fiery trails everywhere they touch like the fine lines of a net that secures him to Spike more tightly than ever, slow and gentle stops being enough. Pulling back to his knees, Connor tugs Spike’s legs up and onto his own shoulders, folding him down in two and fucking him hard, harder than he’s ever dared. The grunts that pass his lips every time he slams his hips home are those a wild animal might make, but he can barely hear himself. All he can hear is Spike.

Moans and breathless, senseless words. Half-bitten curses and pleas. Demands that Connor continue, that he fuck him harder still, make him his again. Promises too, but Connor doesn’t listen to those, doesn’t even let Spike finish, ramming his cock halfway up to Spike’s throat and there aren’t any more coherent words coming out of his mouth after that, just moans and choked sounds.

When Connor looks down, he sees Spike’s cock, hard and flushed, bouncing with each of his movements, sees it painting trails of precome all over Spike’s skin. Letting go of one of Spike’s thighs, he curls his hand at the base of that beautiful cock instead, tight and snug, almost punishing. Spike practically snarls at him.

“Don’t come,” Connor pants, staring straight into eyes that are more gold than blue now and feeling goosebumps erupt all over his skin. “Don’t you fucking come now.”

Spike growls and trashes beneath him, but Connor has him pinned down with his hands, cock and eyes, the weight of his body pushing Spike down into the mattress. 

“Don’t come,” he says again, and his voice is broken and gasping, and he might just as well say “I’m going to” because it’s what it sounds like to his own ears.

Spike’s cock is a bar of steel in his hand, the tip a deep purple now, and Spike finishes shifting into game face, the crunch and slide of rearranging bones like thunder in Connor’s ears. He comes with a howl, a flash of white blinding him to everything but the demon eyes staring straight up into his soul. It's all he can do to hope that Spike doesn't see in him more than Connor wants to acknowledge is there.

Bones turned to jelly, Connor lets Spike’s legs fall to either side of him and collapses onto his chest. His cock slips out of Spike with a quiet popping sound that is wet and obscene, a sound that makes him shudder and causes his spent cock to try to twitch back to life as Spike’s arms close around him. His hand is still tight at the root of Spike’s cock between them, and it stays there as he rolls to the side and onto his back, drawing Spike right along with him until their positions are reversed.

Still in game face, Spike looks down at him. He’s never looked so hungry, never watched Connor like he was both salvation and damnation both, and for just the blink of an eye Connor wonders why the look is so familiar. The thought doesn’t last, retreating behind the all-consuming urgency of Spike’s need – and Connor’s own as it reawakens.

“Fuck me,” he says, and somehow he sounds like he’s begging and ordering at the same time. “Fuck me now, please.”

He tries to direct Spike’s cock where he wants it but he’s fumbling too much until Spike’s hand joins his own. Spike moves back, and suddenly the tip of his cock is pressing wetly against Connor’s ass, and Connor doesn’t know whether to be grateful for what’s to come or frustrated that Spike isn’t inside him already.

He lets go of Spike’s cock to clutch at his shoulder instead, pulling him forward, and Spike finally presses in. 

“Oh god Spike please don’t—”

The rest is nothing more than a groan, and Connor couldn’t say if it would have come out as ‘don’t stop’ or ‘don’t move’. With need and want making him hasty, he forgot – they both forgot – that it’s been three days for Connor. With nothing but precome easing its way in, Spike’s cock stretches Connor’s flesh, and it burns. It hurts. It’s _good_. Connor wiggles beneath Spike, trying at the same time to pull him deeper and slow him down.

“Stop?” Spike asks raggedly, breathing the word against Connor’s lips.

“No,” Connor replies at once without thinking. “Don’t. Don’t stop. Just… slow.”

And so Spike gives him slow, shallow thrusts back and forth that draw gasps and quiet cries from Connor’s mouth. Spike drinks them all as though they were fine wine, lips barely parted against Connor’s own. Every nerve in Connor’s body is thrumming with need, every inch of his skin crying for Spike. Hands touching anywhere he can reach, hips arching toward Spike and inviting him deeper, he slides his tongue inside Spike’s mouth, finding fangs that seem to have been waiting for him.

It’s only when his eyelids lift just enough so he can see Spike’s demon mask above him that he realizes he had closed his eyes. His right hand on Spike’s neck finds two scars, almost healed already, the round edges raised and a little rough under his fingertips. He wonders if that’s what Spike needed from Angel, or part of it. Remembers the matching marks on his father’s throat. 

He doesn’t think – doesn’t let himself think. Long ago, in another life, he was taught that when confronted to a predator, too much thinking can mean death. Instincts honed to perfection are a better answer. And so he follows his instinct – and the boy he was in that other life would be horrified when he presses his tongue against the tip of one razor-sharp fang. 

He has tasted his own blood often enough, spilled by blows that made his head ring in pain. Once, not even a month gone, he’s given Spike just a hint of it on his split lips. This is more than a hint, more than teasing. This is him saying much more than ‘I love you’ can begin to cover. And Spike has to understand, because he jerks back at once, eyes wide and wild for just a second. Thrusting back in, burying himself as deep as Connor will let him, he comes with a cry of Connor’s name, his eyes never leaving Connor’s face.

Connor pulls him down to him, chest to chest and lips on lips. Spike rolls to his side and wraps his arms around Connor. He shifts back even as Connor pushes his still faintly bleeding tongue inside his mouth. 

They’re still kissing, still clinging to each other long after the scratch has stopped bleeding.

*

After Connor leaves, Angel stands in front of the window for a long moment, not really seeing the city beyond the glass. There are hundreds of vampires in Los Angeles. Thousands. And there’s now one more soulless one. 

The thought should upset him more than it does – shouldn’t it? He should be afraid for Connor, should have stopped him from going to Spike, should have at least warned him. 

He’s not afraid – and he’s the first surprised about it. He’s _always_ afraid for Connor, about every little thing. So why isn’t he afraid now? Why did he let Connor return to Spike without worrying about more than how badly they would argue? 

He didn’t tell Connor, even though Connor pleaded with him. Telling him no was harder than it should have been. If he’s honest with himself, it’s not because Spike asked him not to tell that he was quiet. Instead, it’s because he knows how Connor would respond. He has seen Angel lose his soul, has met Angelus. He was ready to kill him. There’s no doubt in Angel’s mind that he’d try to kill Spike - and in the state of mind Spike is, he might just let him. No doubt either that it would destroy him, destroy the healthier boy he has become and push him back to what he was before Vail’s spell.

He doesn’t know how Spike is going to explain himself, or if he’ll even apologize. Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t say anything at all. Better if they broke up now. Better if Connor left LA before the big showdown. He’d be heartbroken, certainly, but at least he’d be alive.

Angel’s hands clench at the thought. They can’t wait much longer. _He_ can’t.

He gets cleaned up before returning to his office. When he steps out of the elevator, Hamilton is there, standing behind his desk. Angel scowls at him.

“Looking for something?” he asks, ice in his voice.

Hamilton gives him one of these pinched lips smiles he seems so fond of. “Just paper, actually. I was going to leave you a note seeing how you decided to take an impromptu personal day.”

Angel ignores the jab and sits down at his desk while Hamilton walks to the other side.

“See, I never had a secretary before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s there for.”

Hamilton doesn’t reply, just stands in front of the desk and adjusts his cufflinks. He’s waiting for Angel to ask what the message was, that much is clear. Angel refuses to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he leans back in his chair and asks, “You knew where Spike was, didn’t you?”

Hamilton raises a questioning eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me that I lost my time trying to find him when you could just have told me.”

At that, Hamilton’s expression hardens. He looks down at Angel with something that looks too much like condescension for comfort. “You wouldn’t have been able to stop it anyway. The decision came from all the way up.”

Angel stands so he can look at him straight on, fingertips pressed to the desk so he won't close his fists. “I thought I was in charge here. Spike works for me. If they wanted him soulless, I should have been there to supervise.”

“Supervise?” Hamilton chuckles. “You mean stop it, don’t you?”

Shaking his head just once, Angel raises his chin an inch higher. “Why would I want to stop it?”

For the first time since Angel has had the dubious honor of meeting him, Hamilton looks unsettled. He frowns for a moment before schooling his features again into an expression of mild curiosity. “So you’re not upset we took his soul away? That’s… interesting.”

It’s all too clear that he means ‘unexpected’, and Angel can only wonder what the Senior Partners expected to achieve by taking Spike’s soul. What did they think Spike would do, or Angel? Whatever it was, Angel is just glad he apparently didn’t deliver. Maybe a good thing can come from this mess and he might be able to use it to his advantage.

“Do you want to know why I’m not upset?” he says after a few seconds. “Because it makes no difference. With his soul or without, Spike will do what I tell him to do. Maybe he won’t whine as much, and maybe he’ll just whine about different things. But in the end, he will do exactly what I say. Like he always did.”

“That’s an interesting reinterpretation of the facts,” Hamilton says, scorn staining his voice. “My information says he tried to kill you—”

“If he really had, I’d be dead.”

Hamilton blinks.

“All he wanted was my attention,” Angel continues, and he's not sure if he completely believes what he says, but he's certain that Hamilton does. “That’s _all_ he ever wanted. Now that he has it, he won’t do a thing to lose it.”

“He has more than your attention. He has your son’s.”

Every time Hamilton mentions Connor, the image of his battered body flashes through Angel’s mind. And every time, he promises himself again that he will kill Hamilton with his own hands for what he has done to his boy. To both of them, now. 

“Do I need to remind you to stay away from Connor?” Angel asks, and the promise of pain in his voice sounds like steel clashing against steel. 

“The Senior Partners are just… curious.” Hamilton’s tugs at his cufflinks again. “You’ve expressed an interest in joining the Circle of the Black Thorn, but you gave it up for the boy. And nothing we see tells us he’s interested in working for us.” His eyes narrow and he looks at Angel pointedly. “Nothing tells us that _you_ do, in fact. Maybe we could arrange for the procedure that was performed on Spike to be repeated on you.”

Angel’s chuckle is brittle as broken glass. “And give up on the prophecy now that you have the vampire with a soul in your hands?”

“Prophecies can be… deceiving,” Hamilton says with a light shrug. “And since we do know now how to restore his soul to a vampire…”

He doesn’t finish, but Angel can understand quite well. If they want a puppet, he isn’t their only choice.

“Did Lilah have a soul?” he asks, sitting back down in his armchair and reclining as though this were all idle conversation.

Hamilton tilts his head to one side. “What?”

“Lilah Morgan. She was in charge here, however briefly. Handed me the keys to the kingdom.”

“I know who Lilah—”

“Did she have a soul?” Angel cuts in abruptly, then touches two fingers to his forehead. “Oh wait. She must have, seeing how she signed it away. What about Holland Manners? Lindsay McDonald? No, nevermind _him_.”

Hamilton now looks annoyed. “Are you saying you want to keep your soul?”

“What I’m saying,” Angel says in his coldest voice yet, “is that you wouldn’t like having to work with Angelus. Because Angelus? Not a team player. He would bring the castle tumbling on your head just to show he could.”

Hamilton snorts. “You’re saying you’re not planning to do just that at the first chance you get?”

Angel doesn’t even blink. “You think this building would still be standing if I did?”

*

An hour or so trickles by. Connor fell asleep long ago. His hands were clenched on Spike at first, but as time passes, his hold slowly slackens. It doesn’t mean anything, Spike tells himself, but maybe his arms around the boy’s waist tighten just a little in response.

With warmth seeping into his skin everywhere they touch, he feels… calmer. Safer. He’s all too aware that it’s ridiculous to feel safe because he’s in the arms of someone who lives and breathes – someone who can die so easily – but it’s not about what the boy is. It’s about Spike coming to term with what _he_ is now. Again. 

When he was turned, there was pain, yes, but it was all physical, all about Dru’s fangs tearing his flesh, stealing his blood – and it wasn’t all pain either. He never felt his soul leaving his body. It was just gone when he woke up, and he didn’t really notice the difference. This time, though, losing it felt like being ripped apart. It was every bit as excruciating as getting it back. It was different, too, because rather than a flood of emotions filling him until his patched-together heart was bursting at the seams, it had been like feelings were being pulled out of him, their roots leaving gaping holes inside him, torn earth ready to wash away and leave him barren, unable to feel more than fear and hate.

He can feel more than that, though. Can still love. And he’s thankful for it, because he knows – how could he not, after a dozen decades of living with himself? – that he’s always defined himself through the ones he loved, always tried to prove himself to them, prove himself worthy of them, give them whatever he thought they wanted or needed from him. It meant, long ago, being a gentleman and a good son. It meant, later, being a ruthless killer. It meant getting his soul back and playing on this side of the chessboard. And now… now it means pretending. It means doing what’s _right_ not because he has a soul to steer him in that direction, but because that’s what the boy sleeping in his arms and the boy’s father expect from him. Because that’s the only way they’ll keep loving him, he knows it, down to the gaping hole left in the core of him.

With careful, barely there fingers, he brushes Connor’s hair away from his face, then traces the curve of his neck, caressing his throat with a single fingertip. Life pulses just beneath silky skin, beating softly against Spike’s touch.

He’d never admit it aloud, but he’s thought about turning this boy, about making him _his_ in such a way that he’d have a greater right to him than his father does. Oh, the things they could do, unfettered by morals and souls, with nothing to care for but each other… 

It was the taste of his blood, freely offered, that reminded Spike of what a terrible idea it was. He’s done this before, turned someone he loved so he could keep them forever, and lost them utterly in the process. He’s not enough of an idiot to make that mistake twice.

Connor’s eyelids flutter open, batting slowly like the wings of a butterfly just out of its cocoon. Spike’s fingers drift to those dark eyelashes and he touches them softly, almost expecting them to leave fairy dust on his fingertips. Connor smiles, and Spike has to touch that too, the pad of his thumb tracing the curve of warm, soft lips.

“Silly boy,” he murmurs, and the curve of Connor’s smile tenses even as it deepens.

“See, silly wasn’t what I thought you’d call me.” The words come out roughened by sleep and sex, and Spike knows if he could drink them they’d be like bitter but rich coffee on his tongue.

“But you are,” he says quietly, shifting closer so he can whisper the words against Connor’s lips. “Silly little boy who gave his blood to the big bad vamp.”

Connor chuckles. “You’re not a big bad vamp,” he drawls, “and I’m not little.”

As though to demonstrate, he bucks his hips against Spike. His cock is half erect, and Spike’s body reacts at once, desire making him hard in an instant. 

“No, not little,” he concedes, pressing back against Connor. His hand drops to clutch his hip and hold him in place as Spike rubs against him. “But you’re my boy. Aren’t you?”

Connor hums softly, eyes closing to slits. “Your boy, yes,” he breathes, then lays his mouth on Spike’s.

They kiss the same way they move against each other, slowly, with no urgency left in them, nothing but the mutual desire to give each other pleasure. Their stomachs are slick with mixed precome, their cocks slide against each other like they belong together, and maybe they do; why else would they fit so well in their joined hands?

The sounds Connor makes just before he comes are pure music, and Spike wishes he could draw that moment forever, keep him poised on that precarious edge and watch him grow more needy with each passing second, watch the lust take over his eyes until they’re gray, as gray as when he’s angry, the storm ready to rage but contained still in that too taut body. But the quiet moan he makes when he comes is more beautiful still, and Spike can never get enough of it. He kisses Connor again, still pressing against him, their spent cocks trapped between them, drawing in small gasps and shaky breaths.

“What do you want to do?” Connor asks, a little while later, when their mixed come has started to dry, holding them together like glue.

Spike’s answer is a quiet rumble, almost a purr. He presses his forehead to Connor’s and rubs gently. “How ‘bout staying in bed forever?”

Connor’s laugh warms Spike all over. “As appealing as it sounds, I think we both need a shower. And I’m kinda hungry.”

“Want to go out?” Spike asks. “Grab something to eat, something to kill, come back home to shag some more?”

Another spark of bright laughter, and Spike wants to turn to it like he turns toward the sun, sometimes, when he’s behind the bewitched glass in Angel’s office.

“Dinner and a show,” Connor says with a grin. “Sounds good.”

They start with a shower, and maybe not every touch to each other is meant to clean. Then they dress, go out, find a diner for Connor to eat, a few vamps for each of them to play. 

When they return home, they find Angel sitting in their apartment. He stands from the sofa as soon as they come in and says, “We’re done waiting. It ends on Tuesday.”

Spike’s hand clenches on Connor’s. He should have known it wouldn’t last.

*

It only takes Angel a moment to explain his plan. Connor listens carefully, nods to show he understands what’s expected of him, but the entire time he feels on edge, and it has nothing to do with the prospect of a big fight being less than a week away.

Spike hasn’t let go of his hand since they walked in, and Connor wouldn’t let him if he tried. He thought it would be awkward to be in the same room with the two of them, but they’re acting like nothing happened, and it all feels a bit eerie. It shouldn’t, though. Connor has been acting the same way since he woke up in Spike’s arms, figuring it was the best way to show him he meant what he said – everything he said. Seeing them do it makes him wonder if for them, it’s an act. Maybe they want him to think nothing has changed, and maybe it’s just the truth. Maybe they can sleep together and go back to calling each other names without missing a beat. Like now. He cuts in with a question.

“Why so fast?”

Angel’s eyes flicker toward Spike, so fast that Connor would have missed it if he hadn’t almost expected it. It’s not a coincidence; of course not.

“Because I’m not waiting until they decide to hurt someone else,” he says, and behind his rough voice, Connor hears, _until they decide to hurt you again_. 

He doesn’t care about that, though. Angel can worry about him all he wants, that’s nothing new. What _is_ new is the near admission that yes, it was the Black Thorn who hurt Spike. He wouldn't say a word about it earlier. Connor’s hand tightens over Spike’s, his eyes harden when they turn to him. He wishes he knew if the target Angel assigned him is the same one who hurt Spike.

Spike meets his gaze and shakes his head lightly before turning a mild glare to Angel. “I’m _fine_ ,” he huffs, and Connor isn’t sure which of them the words are meant for.

“Are you, boy?” Angel asks, voice low and gravelly. Connor’s heart stutters and the nails of his free hand dig into his own palm. “Really?”

Spike huffs again, thankfully too offended to notice the flutter in Connor’s heartbeat. “Yes,” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “I am. Really.”

Connor’s mind insists on tacking on a quiet _Daddy_ at the end of that exasperated sentence, and when Angel’s eyes turn to him he’s sure that it’s because Angel can smell the blood in his palm. Or something else.

“How about you, son?” he asks, considering Connor with the same badly hidden worry he just offered Spike.

Connor is startled enough that he feels like jumping out of his own skin. He’s grateful, too, that Angel called him _son_ , and not… _that_. “Me?” he squeaks. “I’m fine too.”

A few seconds pass, and Angel’s gaze doesn’t lift from him. His lips are set on a tight line, like he wants to ask something else but doesn’t dare to.

Connor looks away and struggles not to squirm. “We’re fine,” he says gruffly, and he’s not sure anymore who is covered by this ‘we’.

Angel nods. “Ok. All right. I just…” He shakes his head just once and doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. Connor can figure out why he’s so worried. 

“We’re _fine_ , Dad,” he says again, and this time he holds Angel’s gaze as he says it. He’s not going to give him permission as plainly and explicitly as he did for Spike, but he doesn’t want Angel to wonder if a coffin-shaped box and ocean water are in his near future. Connor hasn’t lost his taste for vengeance – whoever hurt Spike will figure that out soon enough – but he didn’t break Angel’s nose when he first confronted him, and he’s not going to do that, or anything else, now that he told Spike it was all ok.

“All right,” Angel says again. “I’ll… go, now. Good night.”

His hand twitches up as he steps forward, like it wants to settle on Connor’s shoulder for a second, but he walks by them without making contact. Connor waits until the soft click of the front door closing behind them before he turns to Spike. He knows Spike has been observing him for a few seconds, and from the slight crease between his eyebrows, he’s still trying to figure something out. Whatever it is, Connor isn’t sure he wants to answer, and so he pushes his dirtiest grin to his lips and says, “I think you owe me a shag.”

Surprise rings like bells in Spike’s laugh. His eyes crinkle, and it would be so easy to forget everything that happened today, or in the past couple of days, and everything that will happen in less than a week, too. He brushes a kiss to Spike’s lips, trying to capture that easiness – but for all that he tries, he fails.

“Little California boys shouldn’t try to speak like they’re from good ol’ England,” Spike says, teasing, his thumb brushing against Connor’s cheek, then his lips.

Connor nips at the fleshy pad of Spike’s thumb, steps closer so that his body is pressed alongside Spike’s. “I thought we had established that I’m not a little boy,” he says, canting his hips forward, pressing his hard-on against Spike’s.

Spike’s sharp intake of breath is sheer music. “Very true, luv.” 

He kisses where his thumb just touched, lips and cheek, then caresses down Connor’s neck, licks a trail there. It wasn’t that long ago that the touch would have made Connor flinch, made his fingers clench on thin air as though searching for a stake, a weapon, anything to stop the predator at his throat. Now, those same fingers are curling at the back of Spike’s neck, and he’s all but pushing back against him, pressing himself into his mouth, jealousy and envy and lust burning an image on the back of his closed eyelids, two healing marks still bloodied on pale skin.

All Spike does is press a kiss at the crook of Connor's neck before coming back up to his mouth for another, deeper kiss. Connor grunts and bites at his lips, and wishes he weren’t too scared to ask, to explain what he’s just figuring out himself: it’s not that Angel and Spike have a _thing_ that troubles him most. Rather, it’s that they share things he can’t have. Things he shouldn’t even want. Like that bite.

Kissing and touching and undressing each other, they stumble to the bedroom, and Connor is naked when Spike pushes him back on the bed. He climbs on it on all fours between Connor's parted legs. 

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispers close to Connor’s skin, pressing the words against his calf like they’re a secret only told in near darkness.

Connor doesn’t know what makes his cock twitch more – the tone of Spike’s voice, or the words themselves. He pushes himself up onto his elbows so he can look down his body, watch Spike draw arabesques up his thigh with the tip of his tongue.

“Your boy,” he breathes, barely even aware of words that are as much a reflex as they are true. 

Spike gives him a quick smile, then presses those same soft, closed lips against his balls, sliding his grin like a caress along Connor’s cock all the way to the tip. Connor lets out a quiet, wordless whimper, and he’d heartily beg for more if not for the flash of burning, wicked eyes looking up at him, like Spike knows Connor is ready to plead after barely more than the whisper of a touch.

Something inside Connor rebels against that self-satisfaction, wants to prove he’s not _that_ easy, even if he is and has proved it many times already. He grasps for a distraction, says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“He always called you boy, didn’t he? Even when he was Angelus.”

And _that_ ’s a name that should cool things down by a few degrees, throw Spike off the trail he’s tracing along Connor’s cock, now from tip to root with lips parted just enough for Connor to guess the wetness of his tongue without actually feeling it.

“Yeah.”

The quiet word is like a kiss pressed right at the base of Connor’s dick. His fists clench on the sheet on either side of him, and if not for Spike’s hands on his hips, holding him down, he’d arch clear off the bed and find his way into that teasing mouth.

A little annoyed and envious – how can Spike be so cool when Connor feels like he’s going to burn from the inside out? – he speaks again, words breezing out of him before he can realize what he’s saying. Before he can remember he never meant to admit knowledge of this.

“And you called him Daddy back then too?”

Spike freezes against him and stays very still for a few seconds. Connor’s blood thumps hard enough in his ears that he’s afraid Spike will say something – call him nosy, call him a fool, tell him he’s a fucking brat who shouldn’t poke his nose where it doesn’t belong and leave grown-ups to deal with the things he doesn’t understand. But when Spike very slowly lifts his head and kneels up, there’s no trace of anger on his face. If anything, he looks… worried.

Hands resting on Connor’s thighs, Spike meets his eyes and asks very quietly, “How much did you hear?”

Connor swallows hard. He wishes he could take it back, wishes he could turn it all into a joke, into teasing, but he was too specific to claim he didn’t know exactly what he was asking.

“Heard you call him… _that_ ,” he says, and his heartbeat picks up just a little more as he remembers Spike’s broken, whimpering voice. “Heard him call you his b-boy. Heard you ask for…” 

Spike closes his eyes tight and Connor can’t finish. He didn’t mean to embarrass Spike, or shame him. He’s not sure what he meant to do anymore. Not sure how to fix things either. He just knows he has to, before Spike pull away from him. Raising a trembling hand, he reaches out to brush his fingertips to Spike’s cheek.

“And then I had to leave,” he offers in a whisper, like a confession, “or I'd have come in my pants.”

Spike opens his eyes again, blinks, looks at him, frowns. Connor bites on the inside of his cheek, and as blood trickles on his tongue, he wonders if he just made the biggest mistake of his life.

*

The words go round and round in Spike’s mind. A minute passes, maybe more, and they still don’t make much sense. Connor can’t possibly mean…

No, he can’t. 

Right?

Spike licks his lips again. Connor’s thighs are trembling beneath his hands – or is it his hands that are trembling on Connor?

“What did you say?” he asks, keeping his voice low to hide the uncertainty that freezes him down to the bones.

Connor’s eyes are coal pits, too dark for Spike to see anything in them. “Nothing,” he says, and the word snaps like old leather. He rolls onto his stomach, hand sliding beneath the pillow to retrieve a tube of lube that he holds out to Spike without looking back. “I said nothing.”

He shuffles up onto his knees, head down in his folded arms, waiting with his ass in the air. He makes such a pretty sight that Spike’s cock reminds itself to him, aching, wanting _in_ and _warm_ and _now_ so very badly. There’s something he wants even more, though. Something he wants more than anything.

He wants to thank this beautiful boy for being his. For giving him his heart without caring about what Spike is, what he has done – what he’s capable of doing. And for that, he’ll give him what he wants. _Whatever_ he wants.

And if what he wants is what Spike thinks he wants… well, it really won’t be a hardship to give it to him.

Making up his mind in a flash, he shoves away his hesitations. If Connor says no, Spike can claim he misunderstood him. He just doesn’t think Connor _will_ say no.

His palm strikes Connor’s ass, and in the silence of the bedroom it’s like thunder just cracked over their heads. He didn’t hit half as hard as he could have, just enough to give Connor a jolt, but as Connor scrambles around, Spike catches just a hint of pink on that pale skin; another time, maybe…

“What the hell do—”

With a hand in the center of Connor’s chest, he pushes him back and moves over him, kneeling on all four above him.

“Language, boy,” he growls.

Connor’s eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His cock twitches, leaving a wet trail on Spike’s stomach, urging him on.

“I don’t like it when you lie,” he says, slow and quiet, his mouth just an inch above Connor’s and his eyes pinning him down. “That was a warning. Lie to me again, and it’ll be more than one strike. Do you understand?”

Connor swallows hard and nods, just barely. Spike considers pushing for a proper answer, but decides it’s too soon. First he needs to make sure.

“I’m going to ask you a question. And I won’t take a lie for an answer.”

Connor nods again. He’s shaking beneath Spike, but the smell that rises from him is pure lust.

“You heard me call Angel Daddy,” Spike says, his tone as light as though he were talking about the weather. 

Color rises in Connor’s cheeks, pink and pretty as a rose. Spike leans down to flick his tongue against that flushed skin.

“You heard him call me his boy,” he continues, rising again so he can watch Connor’s eyes. His pupils are so dark, there’s no blue left for Spike to drown in. “Here’s the question. No lying, now.” He pauses for a beat to let that sink in, and then he asks, voice like sin wrapped with a bow, “Did it make you hot?”

One more tiny nod, but it’s not enough any longer.

“Speak, boy,” Spike demands. “Words. A complete sentence, even.”

Connor runs the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. Spike’s cock jumps, brushes against Connor’s, and it’s torture not to give in and just take him now. Just this once, though, Spike can be patient. Just a few more seconds.

“Y-yes. It made me hard.” The words are a broken whisper, full of shame and guilt, and Connor has never been Angel’s son more than he is at that moment. 

Spike has never wanted him more.

“Good boy,” he whispers, caressing the words against Connor’s mouth. “One more question. And remember, all I want is the truth, whatever the truth is. Tell me, now, luv. What do you want?”

Connor blinks. Then closes his eyes. His heartbeat fills the room, echoed in a vein that pulses fast on his neck. Spike wants to kiss it, scrape his teeth against it, feel Connor’s life beneath his tongue. He remains perfectly still and waits for an answer. 

When Connor opens his eyes again, when the answer finally comes, it’s in a quiet voice that shakes with each word but never hesitates. “I want you to touch me. Please. Daddy.”

It wouldn’t take much more for Spike to come, without anyone touching him, just whispered words brushing against his lips – and what beautiful words they are.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, sliding a hand to the lube, uncapping it with a flick of his thumb, squeezing some onto his fingers. “Such a _brave_ boy.”

A quiet sound passes Connor’s lips at the praise; Spike picks it as delicately as he would pick a precious flower, kissing his boy like it’s the first time all over again, sweet and slow, as gentle as his touch to Connor’s thigh. Connor understands at once and pulls up his legs, offering himself to Spike’s fingers, moaning into his mouth at the first touch of wet fingers.

Spike hates breaking the kiss but he kneels up so he can look down at Connor and drink in every bit of pleasure that crosses his features at each slide of fingers inside him. His face is still flushed, his eyes wide again, but if he’s shaking now, it’s from Spike’s touch, and nothing more.

“Is that what you wanted, my boy?” Spike asks, just on the edge of teasing, as he presses against Connor’s prostate.

Connor practically arches off the bed, a mewling sound rising from deep in his chest.

“Is it?” Spike insists even as he does it again.

Connor all but sobs his reply. “I wanted… I wanted your cock, Daddy. Inside me.”

Spike’s fingers slide out with an obscene, wet little sound. Connor groans in protest, hips shifting down in search of contact. Spike takes hold of his own cock, smears what’s left of the lube along it, and presses in. He slides all the way in with just one slow thrust, Connor’s body yielding to him like this is where he belongs.

“All you’ve got to do is ask, baby,” Spike says as he leans forward, resting on his forearms so he can kiss Connor without crushing him. “Anything you want. Anything I can give you. It’s yours. _Anything_.”

Connor bears down onto his slow thrusts, moans against his neck. “Daddy _please_.”

And there’s enough need in these two words that Spike doesn’t need to ask what he wants exactly. Another time, he’ll make him say it, make him ask for every touch, every finger on his skin, every thrust inside his body. Another time. Not now, when Connor is so bloody perfect and beautiful.

Picking up his pace, he presses in a little deeper, a little harder with each new thrust. “Touch yourself,” he demands, gasping quietly at the tightness that makes sparks dance along his spine. “Show Daddy how pretty you are when you touch that lovely cock of yours.”

Connor is panting, moaning, trembling – but he does what Spike asks without losing a second, hand curling around his cock and pulling it straight up, where the tip brushes against Spike’s skin every time he moves, paints stripes of need and belonging against him.

“Like… like that, Daddy?”

“Just like that, yes.” Spike punctuates his words with his hardest thrust yet. “Good boy.” Another one. “My good boy.” And again. “Aren’t you?”

Connor’s eyes shut tight, his lips part on a low whine.

“Aren’t you?” Spike says again, voice harder now, and he slides a hand to cover Connor’s on his dick. He squeezes hard, stopping Connor’s hand, but never stops fucking him.

Connor practically wails.

“Tell me, boy. Tell Daddy.”

“Y-yours,” Connor gasps. “Your boy. Daddy please please I want…”

Spike releases his grip just enough that his fingers start sliding with Connor’s, stripping his cock fast and hard, as fast and hard as he’s fucking him.

When Connor comes, eyes wet and blurred, mouth open on a breathless gasp and that word, again like a prayer on his lips, Spike just has a second to think he’s one lucky bastard – and then he follows him right over the edge of the cliff and flies.

*

With each swirl of Spike’s fingers through the come on his stomach, Connor shivers. He tries to stop, tries to calm down his heartbeat, but his nerves feel raw everywhere Spike’s skin is pressed to his, along his arm, his side, his leg, and those swirls on his stomach, like the runes of a spell, magic as ancient, as potent as sex. He keep expecting Spike’s touch to slide lower, to turn into something else, something more, but Spike seems content with just this gentle touch. That, and observing Connor so intently that he has to close his eyes.

That’s not enough, though; he can still feel Spike's gaze on him, heavy, searching, reading on Connor's face answers to questions he's not asking. Answers Connor isn't sure he ever wants to figure out himself. He throws his arm over his eyes, hides his face. Right away, Spike’s hand closes over his own and pulls it away.

“Talk to me, luv,” Spike murmurs, and his mouth is close enough to Connor’s cheek that the words are a caress. 

Connor gives a tiny shake of his head. There’s a lump in his throat; the words hurt when he pushes them out. “And say what?”

Spike presses his forehead to Connor’s temple. “Anything that’s on your mind.” His voice drops to a whisper, but even so Connor can hear a thread of fear wound tight around them. “I thought you wanted this. If I pushed you into something you didn’t want… I’m sorry, luv. That’s the last thing—”

“Don’t,” Connor breathes, and squeezes his eyes tighter. “I did want it.”

The shaky sigh that tickles his cheek is pure relief. It’s followed by the brush of Spike’s lips, so soft it can barely be called a kiss. 

“Then what’s wrong, luv?”

Spike keeps calling him ‘love’ with the same warmth in his voice, the same sugar on his lips as when he called him _his_ and _good_ and _brave_. But brave or good is the very last thing Connor feels like he is. As for being Spike’s… how could Spike want him still, love him, after _this_?

“I didn’t…” He doesn’t know how to end that without lying. He starts over. “I mean, this is not…You’re not…” 

He tries to roll away so he can hide into the pillows, but Spike stops him. Gentle hands on Connor’s wrists hold him down as Spike kneels over him.

“Look at me.”

Connor clenches his eyes tighter still.

“Look at me, boy.”

The tone is just as gentle as the first time, pleading rather than demanding, and yet Connor can’t do anything but obey. He blinks and looks up, but he can’t bear meeting Spike’s eyes, and he looks at the scars on his neck instead. Spike lowers his head until Connor has no choice but to look at his face, and only then does he ask, “I’m not what?”

Connor swallows hard. Breathes, “Disgusted?”

For a long moment, Spike stares at him, his brow slowly drawing tighter into a frown. He lets go of Connor’s right hand and caresses his face with his fingertips, tracing his mouth, his nose, following one eyebrow then the other.

“Been playing this game a hell of a lot longer than you,” he says at last, the slightest smile pulling at his lips. “I’ve got no reason to be disgusted now. And neither do you.”

Draping his arm over Spike’s back, Connor pulls him down. It doesn’t take much more than a roll of his hips to reverse their positions. Spike’s arms close around him, as tight as Connor hoped they would be. He presses his face to Spike’s neck, hiding again. This time, Spike lets him, and strokes his back lightly when Connor starts shaking against him.

“You said you wanted this,” Spike says quietly against the side of his head. “If that’s true, then you’ve got nothing to regret. Nothing to be ashamed about either. If once was enough, if you decide that’s not for you, then that’s it. We don’t have to do it again, or speak about it if you don't want to. There’s plenty of other things we can do. Just as long as it’s what you want.”

His fingers have drifted to Connor’s head and they’re carding through his hair, gentle and soothing. 

Very quietly, right against the scars on Spike’s neck, as rough against his lips as the words are when they scratch his throat raw, he whispers, “What if… what if once wasn’t enough?”

Spike kisses his hair. “Then we can do it again, luv. Whenever you want. It’s up to you. Ok?”

“Ok.”

Some of the knots that constrict Connor’s chest loosen up a little, but he still can’t breathe fully, still can’t chase away all his fears, and he has to ask, voice tiny and so childlike that he’s as embarrassed by what he sounds like as he is by what he says.

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

Without releasing his hold on him, Spike rolls them onto their sides. He pushes back just enough to look at Connor, fingers curled at the back of his head now and stopping him from hiding again.

“Tell me something, luv,” he says quietly. “And whatever answer you give me, I’m not going to judge or be mad or jealous or anything else. I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that. I just want you to tell me the truth. Can you do that?” 

Connor would like to be able to say yes, but that would be a lie. He has to settle down for a shaky, “I hope.”

Spike nods as though it’s enough. Pressing his forehead to Connor’s, he asks, “Who did you see in front of you when you called me daddy?” 

Closing his eyes again, Connor takes in a shaky breath. The truth, whatever it is, Spike said, but Connor isn’t sure he knows what the truth is. He starts trembling again, and Spike pulls him closer at once.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispers, and is shocked to realize he sounds like he’s crying.

“It’s all right.” Spike’s lips brush his cheeks and lips. “It’s all right if you don’t. And it’s all right if you figure it out and it’s not me. I promise, luv. It’s all right.”

All Connor can reply is, “I love you.”

All he can hope is that Spike does mean it.

*

Like clockwork, Connor walks out of his apartment fifteen minutes after eight. It takes him about ten minutes to go to the architect firm on foot; Angel’s bodyguards will trail him all the way there. If he’s holding on to his schedule, it has to mean things aren’t as damaged as Angel feared they would be – right? 

He’s been fretting about it all night, more worried as the hours advanced. Connor said they were fine – but two years ago, he said the same thing, offered the same tight smile to Angel up to the moment when he flipped the switch from Connor the prodigal son to Steven the misguided avenger. Angel hopes – he really, really hopes – that eighteen years worth of imagined but happy memories weren’t undone in just one night. 

Just a week or two ago – it feels like forever – Angel told Wes he was glad to have his son back; he’s not so sure he’s allowed to be glad anymore, not when Connor could get hurt in so many ways. Hopefully after today he’ll be safe from bodily harm. His heart, though, could still get broken much too easily.

Angel waits just a few more minutes before going to the apartment. He enters without knocking, all but certain he’ll find Spike in bed. He never was a morning person. Instead, though, he finds him seated in the kitchen, an empty mug in front of him, an ashtray next to it. The remains of two cigarettes are already mixed in with the ashes, and as Angel approaches, Spike lights up another one.

Seating across from him, Angel lets out an exasperated sigh. “Do I need to kick your sorry ass about those damn cigarettes?”

Spike takes a first drag before he answers. His eyes are bloodshot when he looks at Angel, like he didn’t sleep much. “If we all get through this alive,” he says, words gravelly and quiet, “I’ll quit. Until then, sod off.” His eyes narrow as he peers at Angel through the haze of blue smoke. “What do you want anyway?”

“I just…” Angel changes his mind halfway through. “Did you tell him? About your soul, I mean.” 

A sharp finger taps half a centimeter of ashes into the ashtray. “No. And I’m not going to.”

Angel nods absently. He didn’t think Spike would tell Connor about what happened, not after he was so insistent that Angel shouldn’t. “OK.”

“OK?” Spike repeats, an eyebrow raised ceiling-high. He leans in and cocks his head to one side to observe Angel. “You’re not going to try and convince me to tell the truth? Be honest and all that crap?”

“No, I’m not.”

Spike peers at him even more closely. “Why not?”

Standing, Angel turns away from him, leaning back against the counter. The bedroom door is open, and from where he stands, he can see the bed’s rumpled sheets. It almost feels like he’s peeking in on them, but it takes long seconds before he manages to look away. “Because it’s a complication we don’t need right now,” he says, shrugging lightly, and while he’s not lying, he’s not telling the entire truth either. 

What would Connor think if he knew Spike can hold himself in check without a soul, while Angel can’t? Angel really doesn’t want to know. 

Turning around again, he meets Spike’s knowing gaze full on. “If I thought he needed to know, I would tell him myself. But right now, it would only be an unnecessary distraction. I know you’re not going to hurt him.”

Spike closes his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in longer than a human could. When he finally releases it in a quiet puff, he says, “I wish I knew that too.”

Angel waits until Spike opens his eyes again and peers at him. In the smoke that surrounds him like an ethereal armor, his eyes almost seem gray, washed out. Worried. One more proof if Angel needed it.

Angel’s fingers are tapping lightly on the counter, an impatient, broken rhythm. He left a message for Gunn to meet him at nine to work over the details of that contract, and he should be going down to the office by now. He can’t, though. Not yet. Not before he knows for sure.

“Is he all right, then?” he asks, pressing his palm down so his nervousness won’t be so apparent.

Spike snorts lightly and crushes what’s left of his cigarette. “You asked him last night. He told you—” 

“That was last night,” Angel cuts in. “How was he this morning?”

After observing him for a moment, Spike shrugs. There’s something in the way he sits a little straighter and doesn’t quite look Angel in the eyes that bothers Angel. Spike bluffs pretty well, but Angel knows all his tells.

“He’s all right,” Spike says, sullen. “All things considered, all right is pretty good.”

Angel sighs softly. He knew it couldn’t possibly be that easy. “How mad is he, really?”

“Not sure he’s mad at all,” Spike says very slowly, as though trying not to say too much. “More like… confused, I guess.”

It doesn’t make much sense. Pushing away from the counter, Angel shakes his head. “He’s got to be mad. He was ready to hit me last night.”

“But he didn’t,” Spike counters. “And instead he all but gave me his blessing.”

Unsure he heard right, Angel looks at Spike questioningly, and only gets a blank stare in reply. “He _what_?” He blinks, but Spike still doesn’t break into one of those satisfied smirks that say how proud he is he tricked Angel somehow. “Why would he…”

Angel can’t even finish, can’t say it aloud. What could Spike have possibly said to get this kind of response out of Connor?

“He understands,” Spike says after a little while. He has picked up a cigarette stub from the ashtray and is using it to draw designs in the ashes. His voice drops to a whisper. “And so do I.”

“Understand what?” Angel asks, more confused than ever. 

Spike looks up again, eyes clear and guileless as they meet his. “Understand that sometimes a boy needs his daddy, that’s all.”

And Angel will be damned if he knows what that’s supposed to mean.

*

“Around seven, then?” Spike puts down the musty volume he was browsing through, earning himself an impatient look from Wesley. “I’ll order the food so it’ll be there when you arrive.”

“Seven,” Wesley confirms. He stands from his desk and takes the book to return it to its proper place on the bookshelf. “Make sure you get an extra order of crab rangoon. Illyria seems to have developed a fondness for it.”

The statement is delivered in such a bland tone that Spike couldn’t say if Wesley is joking. It’s hard to tell what he thinks, these days; scotch dulls his eyes even when he is sober.

Stepping out of Wesley’s office, Spike looks across the hall. Angel’s door is open – not that a closed door has ever stopped Spike before. He doesn’t feel like going, though. He’s been much too tempted that morning to either say too much or put his fist in Angel’s face. The man is an idiot. Even when Spike all but handed him the keys to his dirty little fantasies, he wasn’t been able to see past the guilt that eats at his insides. There is no need to wonder from whom Connor has inherited that clueless side of his – definitely not Spike’s favorite side.

It won’t be long before Connor returns, and rather than going back to the apartment, Spike sits on the staircase in the lobby to wait. He used to do the same when he was a ghostie, observe, try to pick up patterns. It’s only been months, but everything feels different, and not just because he’s solid now. Back then, an hour couldn’t pass without a member from the dream team walking over to Angel’s office, or without him going to them. Now… they might as well all be strangers. It’s a good thing it’s all going to end soon.

The elevator doors open and Spike’s eyes slide over the faces that walk out. No pretty boy he wants to kiss there, and he’d return to his observation of the lobby if not for a nagging feeling. He takes a second look. Two men are already walking away; they clearly know where they’re going. The third one, though, stops, hesitates, and looks around him like he’s a bit lost. Spike has seen that frown, if very briefly, just weeks earlier. Connor’s so-called father wouldn’t even look at Spike then, or talk to him. This time, he won’t have a choice. 

Spike gets to his feet and strides across the lobby before he can even think. Standing in front of Lawrence Reilly, he glares at him. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Reilly takes a step back, though Spike isn’t sure if he’s startled or scared.

“I…” Adjusting his jacket, he looks around, eyes searching – or is he just too uncomfortable to look at Spike? “Is Connor around? I need to talk to him.”

Spike jabs a finger at the man’s chest. He’d bet that, in that imaginary life, Connor heard a million times that he had his father’s eyes. To Spike, they look nothing alike. “And he doesn’t need to hear anything you have to say.”

Frowning down at Spike’s finger, Reilly pushes it away. “You don’t understand, I—”

“I don’t understand?” Spike snorts and presses forward, wishing he’d be taller so he could loom over the bastard. “Oh, but I do. You think you’re gonna rescue your boy from the bad man who sullied him. You think you know better than he does. You think I’m going to let you take him away from me. Well, think again.” It’s only when Reilly’s eyes widen that Spike realizes he is on the verge of shifting to game face. He pushes the mask away, just barely, but doesn’t stop glaring. “He doesn’t need you,” he practically growls. “He already has a—”

“Dad?”

Spike looks to the side just as Reilly does. Connor is standing there, frowning in confusion. He raises his hand and closes his fingers over Spike’s wrist – and what was his hand doing, fisted on the edge of Reilly’s jacket?

“Spike?” Behind the calm of Connor’s voice, anger is lurking, too dark to tell how deep it is. “Let go of him.”

Spike pushes at Reilly and lets go. “Lawrence was just leaving,” he sneers, baring his teeth at the man. “Weren’t you, daddy?”

Connor’s fingers tighten over his wrist; a flash of pain draws Spike’s eyes to him. He’s pissed, that much is clear, but Spike can’t manage to be sorry.

“Dad?” he says, looking away from Spike for a second. “Mind giving me a minute? I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for an answer, he drags Spike away, leading him to the other side of the lobby, out of earshot. When he lets go of his hold on Spike’s wrist, he turns a hard look at him. “What the hell was that?”

Spike shakes his head once. “That was me trying to protect you. Last time you talked to the wanker—”

“Spike!” Connor’s eyes are wide and incredulous. “It’s one thing for you to kill demons that look at me cross-eyed, but you don’t need to protect me from him! And you’re not ever putting a finger on him again. Are we clear?”

Crossing his arms, Spike meets his eyes squarely. “You don’t need him. You’ve got me. And Angel. Unlike that guy-” He gestures to where Lawrence Reilly is still standing, looking extraordinarily out of place. “-we love you exactly the way you are.”

Something crosses Connor’s eyes. He looks down for a second. When he meets Spike’s gaze again, the anger is almost gone. “I know that,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “But he’s my father. Don’t…”

Whatever he was going to say – whomever he was talking about – Spike will never know. Just feet away from them, Angel has walked out of his office and is observing them with undisguised curiosity. 

Red spreads over Connor’s cheeks and neck in a blink. He clears his throat and rests a hand on Spike’s chest. “I’ll be back,” he mutters. “Stay here. And don’t do anything stupid. Please.”

And as Connor leaves with Reilly, Spike is pretty sure he knows what that stupid thing is. He wishes he knew just how mad Connor would be if he talked too much. He wishes he weren’t so tempted. He wishes he still had a soul. He wishes he could actually believe the soul would have made a difference.

*

“Hey. You all right?”

Hands fisted in his pockets, Connor stands in front of a man he used to think of as _dad_ \- he even called him that, just moments ago – but he can’t help but think that reality is broken. 

“His eyes.” Lawrence is still looking toward Spike. He’s frowning, and even starts to reach toward his own eyes, stopping short of touching his face. “They were…” He doesn’t finish. He probably doesn’t know how to without sounding insane.

_Golden. Glowing. Inhuman._

Connor saw that too. He’s surprised Spike’s eyes could be that bright without the rest of his face shifting to his demon mask. How mad was he, exactly? What happened before Connor arrived for him to get that mad?

And what would have happened if Connor hadn’t arrived when he did?

“What do you say we get out of here?” he says, because he can _feel_ eyes on him, and he’s not sure he wants to know if they’re Spike’s or Angel’s.

“Sure. Could we… go get a coffee or something?”

When they climb in the elevator, Lawrence looks at Connor, even says his name, but a woman gets in just before the doors close, and they’re quiet after that. They’re quiet all the way to the coffee house just down the block. A month earlier, they’d have been walking practically shoulder to shoulder, and Connor would have been babbling the entire time, telling his father about his job, about the apartment, about how awesome the coffee is at that place, about how much he likes LA even if he has no idea why he does. Today, with every step, Connor can’t help but be aware of how much distance there is between him and Lawrence. That’s all he can think of.

They order at the counter, and when Lawrence says the tab’s on him, Connor pulls a few bills from his pocket. A month ago, that, too, might have been different. 

“So how did you find me?” he asks after they’ve sat down at a table. They’re by the window, and when he looks out, Connor can see just a bit of the Wolfram & Hart building. His eyes slide up and he tries to figure out which floor his apartment is. The windows face this side, he thinks. Angel’s, too.

“Caller ID,” Lawrence says. “When you called your mom, it said Wolfram & Hart.”

Connor nods absently. “I see,” he says before taking a sip of coffee. It’s too hot and he burns his tongue. He always does that. He didn’t use to be so bad at learning from his mistakes. His eyes return to the building. Sunlight is glinting off it. He never thought of asking Spike if he likes the special glass. In a few more days, that glass and sunlight will be history for both Spike and Angel. They’ll probably miss it.

“Connor?” Lawrence’s voice is almost pleading. He only continues when Connor looks at him. “I’m sorry.”

A slow blink is all Connor can manage. He expected… a lecture. An argument. Something that would make it a little harder still to think of Lawrence as his father. And instead… 

Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels.

“I was…” 

Lawrence’s voice trails off. He looks down at his coffee cup. His fingers are tapping on each side of it, nervous, uncomfortable, undoubtedly wishing for a cigarette to play with, even after all these years. Connor has seen him do the same thing a thousand times since he quit. That was not very long after Connor and his friend borrowed his cigarettes and lighter to try to smoke. Connor wonders what it would take for Spike to quit. He wonders what made Lawrence quit in the reality in which he didn’t have a son.

“I guess shocked would be a good way to say it,” Lawrence continues with a light shrug. “I didn’t expect…” He shrugs again. “And then I saw you and… _him_ and… I’m sorry.”

As apologies go, it’s hardly the nicest Connor has ever heard. Then again, he knows firsthand how hard those can be when one truly believed at the time they were doing the right thing.

He nods, just once, and tries to give Lawrence a smile. “I didn’t expect it either, you know. It’s not like I’ve been lying to you about who I am.” He tries another sip of coffee; it’s still very hot, but it doesn’t hurt this time. “I think… I didn’t know who I was.”

Lawrence observes him carefully before asking in the blandest tone Connor has ever heard him use, “And now you do?”

“And now I do,” Connor confirms.

“And… you like who you are?”

Connor’s gaze hardens. 

“I don’t mean you shouldn’t,” Lawrence says very fast, sitting back in his chair. “I just… I want you to be happy. Whichever way you choose to lead your life.”

Sighing, Connor shakes his head. He should have known this was too easy. “That’s the thing, though. I didn’t _choose_ anything. I am who I was born to be. Nothing can ever change that. I can’t change that. I could pretend I’m still your little boy, but I’m not.”

If Connor were any braver, he’d tell Lawrence that this is about more than whom he wants to sleep with. He would tell him that the whole ‘superhero’ thing doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what started to change the day that van hit him. Funny how it’s easier to be brave when he’s in bed and in Spike's arms.

“But you’re still my son.” Lawrence leans forward, reaches over the table and taps Connor’s shoulder twice, a little awkwardly. “Whatever you do, whoever you love, you’re my son and I’m not going to stop loving you. And I really am sorry it took me so long to realize that.” 

Connor nods again and drops his gaze to his coffee cup. He can’t speak, and takes several gulps to try and loosen the knot in his throat. The silence that stretches between him and Lawrence has never felt so thick, so stifling. He is grateful that the man in front of him is ready to accept him the way he is. But some part of him is claiming that it’s too late. Lawrence’s approval is no longer the one that matters most in his life. Instead, it fits on that little nook in his mind, the one where Holtz’s (dis)approval is already shelved. Connor wonders how long it will take before Lawrence’s opinion and beliefs matter as little as Holtz’s.

“He’s very protective of you.”

Startled, Connor looks up, sitting straighter and blinking.

“Spike?” he says, when he realizes whom Lawrence is talking about. “Yeah. A bit too much at times.”

Lawrence frowns. “I thought… Your mom said his name is William.”

Connor could slap himself over the head for the slip. “It is,” he says, and hides a wince. “Spike’s his nickname.”

A nod and a quiet, “Oh, of course,” could almost fool Connor into thinking that Lawrence is comfortable talking about Spike. As much as he tries to look interested, though, there’s a tightness in his voice and smile when he asks, “And he works for Wolfram & Hart?” 

Connor’s eyes briefly return to the building. Did Spike calm down, yet? Did Angel see him acting weird with Lawrence? Has he shaken some sense back into him or is he leaving that for Connor?

“He does,” he replies absently. “He’s like… a bodyguard. To Angel.”

Except that bodyguards usually don’t sleep with their charges, do they? Not unless they’re in an overhyped movie. Is that what they’re doing now? Connor said it’d be ok, and he meant it, but Spike has this thing about talking after sex, and he didn’t actually _say_ he wouldn’t tell, and Connor feels like he might start hyperventilating any second now. Should he go back as fast as he could – or would not going back be the better choice? 

“Angel… Wasn’t he the CEO or something? The one who didn’t want to help?”

It feels absolutely eerie to hear Lawrence say Angel’s name. Connor swallows hard.

“Yeah. That’s him.” And just because he can’t let this stand… “But he helped, you know. He did the right thing in the end.”

And suddenly, Connor can’t remember – he told Angel he understood why he did what he did, but did he ever thank him? 

What words could he even use to thank his father for slitting his throat?

*

Angel’s glass clanks softly when he sets it down on his desk. Spike has refilled his own twice already, and Angel is tempted to do the same, but maybe it’s not such a good idea. He leans back in his chair and looks toward the open door. He can’t really see into the lobby from this angle, but he keeps expecting Connor to appear at the door.

“He’s been gone a long time,” he says, more to himself than to Spike. 

At the other end of the room, sunken deep into the cushions of the couch, Spike scoffs. He doesn’t say a word, though, doesn’t even look toward Angel. He’s been just as sullen since Connor left with Lawrence Reilly. Angel would like to believe he is not brooding quite as badly as Spike is. He’s not really fooling himself, though.

He rolls his glass on his desk, balanced on the rim, long wide arcs that always end up right where he started, just like his thoughts.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” he can’t help asking after a little while.

This time, Spike deigns to throw a look at him. It’s a dark look, filled with annoyance. “You,” he snaps. “What else?” 

Angel frowns. Would Connor tell his other family, tell _him_ about the spell? Would he tell them he’s not really theirs, and now that he found his real father again, he doesn’t need them anymore?

No, that only happens in Angel’s dreams.

But Spike spends more time with Connor than Angel does, and, as much as it pains Angel to admit it, he knows _this_ Connor a little better than Angel does. “Do you think he would—” 

This time, Spike snorts. Jumping to his feet, he takes his glass to the liquor cabinet and refills it. “No, I don’t think he’s ready to let go of them. Don’t think he ever would, actually. So you can stop hoping already.”

His back is to Angel as he takes a drink, for which Angel is grateful. Spike doesn’t need to see how disappointed he is.

Walking over to the window, Spike stands there and glares at the street. “The wanker is probably telling him how he’ll rot in hell for being a sodomite or some such nonsense,” he mutters. “Like the boy isn’t confused enough already.”

Angel sits up at that, and frowns at the back of Spike’s head. “Confused? Confused about what?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Spike says. The tone of his voice says the exact opposite. “But if that bastard upsets him again, I swear I’ll—”

“Do absolutely nothing,” Angel cuts in. He stands and crosses the room, returning the glass to the top of the liquor cabinet. 

Spike turns to watch him walk by. He looks absolutely mutinous. Repressing a sigh, Angel goes to him and crosses his arms. “Whatever he tells Connor, even if he upsets him again, you are _not_ going to do anything about it. Got it?”

Slowly bringing the glass to his mouth, Spike finishes his drink without taking his eyes off Angel. Even after he’s done, however, he doesn’t reply. Angel feels like growling.

“Spike. Tell me you understand.”

Spike licks his lips and gives a tiny shake of his head. “If he hurts my boy, he deserves whatever’s coming his way.”

Angel’s fists clench tight, but he manages to let the ‘my boy’ go. Spike is just trying to rile him up so Angel will forget about the threats to Lawrence Reilly. It’s not that easy, though.

“You know that dinner the other night?” Angel says, gritting his teeth. “Did you ask him what happened?”

He doubts Spike even thought about it, not after what happened to him that night, and Connor wouldn’t think he’d need to tell Spike.

“No,” Spike says, shrugging. His eyes narrow and his lips tighten into something that really can’t be called a smile. “I don’t need to hear how you tried to snog him in the car like a cheap prom date.”

Angel blinks once. Then a second time. Only then do Spike’s words begin to make sense – except for the fact that they really don’t. His blood boils over and he strikes without thinking, backhanding Spike over the mouth. 

Spike’s head whips to the side and he stumbles back against the window. When he looks up again, licking at his split lip, he’s grinning almost savagely. “You’re not denying it,” he says coolly. “Interesting.”

Angel just barely controls the urge to strike him again. He doesn’t want to have to explain to Connor why he beat up Spike. The only thing that could be worse would be Spike explaining it himself.

“I did not touch him,” Angel says slowly, leaning in close so he’s practically nose to nose with Spike and glowering. “Nor am I going to. If you know what’s good for you, you will stop saying stuff like that.”

Spike never even blinks. “Doesn’t mean you don’t want to, Daddy,” he drawls. “And it’s not like I’m judging you anyway.”

The worse part is, Spike probably means it. With a growl, Angel turns away and walks back to the liquor cabinet. He spills a bit of scotch as he pours but couldn’t care less. He downs his glass so fast he barely even tastes the alcohol. 

Looking back at Spike, he snarls at him. “Get the hell out of my office.”

Spike smirks. Walking around the sofa, he sits down again, arms extended on the back on either side of him. “Not yet. You were telling me what happened at that dinner, weren’t you?”

For a second or two, Angel wonders if he should bother warning Spike. If the idiot wants to play with fire, it’ll be his own damn fault when he gets himself burned to ashes again. 

The only problem is, he wouldn’t be the only one to get hurt.

“He told them he’d kill anyone who laid a finger on his family,” he says, words whipping the air with the same crack as a leather belt.

Spike’s smile finally starts to fade. “And by family he meant—” 

“The Reillys. Who else? So don’t go and do anything that will get you staked.”

He can see that Spike finally gets it, and yet the nod he expects still doesn’t come. Instead, Spike says, “If I do—”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Angel cuts in. He points a finger at him, only then realizing that he’s shaking. “Don’t you even _say_ something like that. You’re not that stupid.”

And it doesn’t matter that Angel has told him often enough that he actually was that stupid. All that matters is that Angel doesn’t want to believe it now. Because believing that Spike can hurt the Reillys means believing he can hurt Connor, and Angel knows what he’d do the moment he thought that were true. Six months ago, it wouldn’t have bothered him all that much – or at least, not in the moment. But now, he doesn’t want to stake Spike. Not when it sometimes feels he’s the only thing stopping Angel from crossing lines he’d never be able to cross back again.

“Maybe I’m not that stupid,” Spike says slowly. “But in case I am… you do it, all right?” He meets Angel’s eyes again, gives him the shadow of a smile. “Make a story about it, too. Give me a heroic death or something. He doesn’t need to add me to the list of people he loved who betrayed him.” 

Angel stares at him, and wonders how much Connor told him about his life – his real life. He almost wants to ask, but finally decides not to. He doesn’t want Spike to take it as an invitation to ask questions and fill in the blanks. Some topics are better left alone.

He refills his glass, then Spike’s, before sitting next to him on the sofa. When Spike raises his glass, Angel clanks his own against it. The sound is deeper, with both glasses full, like church bells, but even if they die next week, neither of them will have a proper funeral. Connor won’t have anything left to bury. And if Lawrence Reilly came over to LA to disown his son, Connor won’t have anything left at all.

As he takes a sip of his drink, Angel wonders if he should change his plans, just a little, and make sure that Connor doesn’t risk losing everything again.

*

The bottle sits on the conference table. There isn’t much left in it. Enough for one last glass, not even half full at that. A couple of sips at best. 

Not enough to share, even if Spike felt inclined to do so, and he doesn’t. 

He stands with some difficulty – stupid sofa and its stupid man-eating cushions. He walks over to the table and picks up the bottle. After emptying what’s left into his glass, he turns back to Angel and takes a sip. Behind Angel, behind the glass that protects them from burning in the sun, giving them a false sense of security they’ll soon need to unlearn, darkness has slipped over Los Angeles. Thousands of lights are already shining, a pitiful defense against the night. Spike wonders where Connor is. He _knows_ the lad is safe, knows the only time Connor is not shadowed by Angel’s bodyguards is when he’s with them, but he still doesn’t like it. The bodyguards can help against claws and fangs – not that Connor would need help in most cases – but there’s little they can do against words. If Spike was there…

“Don’t even think about it.”

Spike blinks at the words and drops his gaze to Angel. He hasn’t moved, except for raising his hand toward Spike in a demanding gesture. 

“Think about what?” Spike replies, frowning, and cradles the glass and the last few drops it contains closer to his chest.

“Going out to find him. Find _them_. That wouldn’t help anything. And give me that glass. You’ve had quite enough to drink already.”

Spike scoffs. “And you haven’t?”

Angel’s hand is still extended, still waiting. “I’m not the one who will need to explain why I just about vamped out in _his_ face.”

Spike wants to scoff again, but somehow his throat is suddenly too tight. He hopes Connor won’t be mad. More than that, though, he hopes he won’t be hurt by whatever the bastard has been telling him. And if he _is_ hurt, maybe, hopefully, this time he’ll accept comfort from Spike.

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing,” he mutters, and presses the glass into Angel’s hand.

He starts turning on his heel, but he hasn’t taken three steps that Angel is practically barking, “Where do you think you’re going? I said—”

“Going up to our place,” he interrupts, now annoyed that he has to explain himself. “Percy’s coming over, late celebration for Vail’s death and all. Got to order food before he and Blue show up.”

He gives Angel a flat look, and it’s clear that Angel knows what Spike isn’t saying aloud. They won’t be talking about their first dent into the Black Thorn’s ranks; instead, they’ll be handing out to Wes and Illyria their assignments for the next fight, should they agree to participate.

“Tell me you’re not going to order some of that awful food again,” Angel says with a grimace.

“The boy _likes_ it. And it’s not awful. Just because you’ve got no sense of taste—”

“What I do have is a kitchen,” Angel cuts in. “And chefs. And you could just—”

Spike rolls his eyes at him. Maybe Angel’s palate, after so much rat’s blood, can’t distinguish anymore between what’s actually good and what is not, but his taste for everything that’s expensive and ostentatious hasn’t changed.

“You're not invited so just send the delivery boy up this time,” he says in a flippant voice, and walks out of the office. He can practically hear Angel scowl at his back.

He orders the food as soon as he gets to the apartment, but even so Wesley and Illyria arrive before it does. Before Connor comes back, too, and now Spike is really getting worried. 

He offers Wesley a beer while they wait for the food, and they watch, a little bemused, as Illyria discovers the gaming system. Observing her as she tries to master the remote control is entertaining in and of itself.

“So, where is Connor?” Wesley asks after a while. “I was beginning to think you two were inseparable.”

Spike washes away his grimace with a mouthful of beer. “With his father.” And that isn’t quite enough, so Spike has to correct himself. “His human father. The one who thinks he raised him to be a proper boy.”

“Ah yes.” Wesley’s eyes dim a little. “Lawrence Reilly.”

“That’s the one.”

“Connor certainly has had an interesting family tree,” Wesley murmurs as though to himself, and Spike is still trying to decide whether to prod and get some answers to things Connor never cared to explain when Illyria turns a curious look to Wesley, and asks, “What does a plant have to do with Connor’s family?”

Wesley doesn’t even smile. “It’s an expression. It just means he’s had a lot of people looking after him, not all of them with the best results.”

Snorting quietly, Spike shakes his head. “What did you expect with vamps for parents?” 

Very slowly, Wesley turns to look at him, and for a moment it seems he’s trying to decide something. Eventually, he says, “Strangely enough, I think Connor’s life would have been much simpler if he had been raised by his biological parents. Or parent, seeing as how Darla was out of the picture right away.”

It’s the opening Spike wanted, offered to him on a silver platter. “Who raised him, then?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“There’s things he doesn’t seem too fond of talking about.”

“Yes,” Wesley says dryly, “I suppose being raised in a hell dimension by a man ready to do anything to take revenge on Angel would be a sore topic.”

The sentence is delivered in such a deadpan tone that Spike can’t figure out if Wesley is joking or not. If he had a dozen questions before, he now has a hundred, but before he can ask any of them someone knocks on the door, then enters before Spike can even take a step to go open. It’s the Chinese take-out as Spike expected, but rather than a delivery boy, it’s Angel who brought it over once again. Spike rolls his eyes at him, annoyed.

“I thought I said—”

“I know what you said,” Angel cuts in. “I’ll be out of here in a minute. I just need to give Wes the details of the attack.”

Spike wants to protest; Angel gave him and Connor all the details, and told them to transmit them to Wesley and Illyria. Why did he change his mind now?

As he listens to Angel’s directions, though, Spike soon realizes Angel hadn’t told them everything. Of course he hadn’t. Connor would be _pissed_ if he knew.

*


	5. Chapter 5

When Connor returns from the coffee shop, night has fallen, and the building is not as busy as it was just a couple of hours earlier. Harmony’s desk is empty, Angel’s door closed. He feels a little guilty pushing the handle down very quietly. Part of him is disappointed to find the office as deserted as the rest of the lobby. Another part…

He walks into the office, noticing the two glasses that were left on the table; empty, like the bottle next to them. He almost finds it amusing that neither of them drinks when he’s around them, but being together always seems to make them thirsty. If he let himself think about it, he might wonder if they need the help of some liquid courage to talk to each other. Or maybe they need the lubrication for something else, but Connor is _not_ thinking about that.

Without really knowing why, he goes to the table and picks up the bottle. Looks at the label and smells the top. There isn’t a drop left, but it still smells rather strongly. Continuing forward, he passes behind the sofa and trails a hand over the back of it. He stops, breathes in deeply. Both their scents are on the leather, but they’re not… together. They’re just there, next to each other, nothing more.

Continuing forward, Connor walks over to Angel’s desk then around it. He sits in the chair, and a memory surfaces, the past layering over the present, and the office, suddenly, is smaller. The desk isn’t neat and bare anymore, it’s covered in books and papers. He almost wants to touch his face and check for bruises.

Angel was gone, his soul in a jar, maybe already stolen, his body locked in a cage in the Hyperion basement. They had all met in his office, and Connor had taken his seat. He’d done it out of spite, or so he had thought at the time, telling himself that he had taken his father’s place amongst the team like he had had, so briefly, his place in _her_ affections. Maybe the truth was elsewhere.

He lays his palms on the desk, slides them outward, then down. When his hand finds the smooth handle of a drawer, he doesn’t even think twice before pulling it open. He had done the same thing, back then, after they had all walked out, just because he could. Just because there was still so much he wanted to know about his father but didn’t dare ask. 

He’s not even sure why he does it again now; not sure either why he doesn’t feel guilty about rifling through the contents of the drawer, fingers just sliding over pens and pencils, pressing down the buttons of the television remote. It all looks so… mundane. Shouldn’t the drawers of the CEO of Evil Incorporated hold strange, mystical objects?

The bottom drawer is just as disappointing. Neatly labeled folders, some holding no more than a single piece of paper, others bulging. Connor thumbs through the line of names. Alphabetical order, of course. There’s a folder for Fred in there; another one for Gunn. Lorne. Wesley. Connor looks through the Cs, then the Rs, and is surprised at the twinge of disappointment that hits him when he doesn’t find a folder with his name on it. Why should he, though? He’s not a client, nor an employee. 

As he closes the drawer with the hanging files, he notices another drawer, shallow and with no handle, just beneath the top of the desk. He tries pulling it, tries sliding his finger in the narrow opening in the center, but when he pushes against it the latch is released and the drawer slides open. There’s a leather folder toward the back, but it’s the slim knife in front of it that catches Connor’s attention. Before he even touches it, he can smell his blood clinging to the spotless blade, and he knows, right away, what knife this is. He’s felt its edge before, tasted its steel, and suddenly his heart is beating as fast, thundering as loudly in his ears, as it was back then – was it only a year ago? He picks up the knife with trembling fingers, shaking so hard in fact that he nicks the tip of his index finger when a voice rises just feet away.

“What are you doing?”

Connor swallows a gasp and looks up, blinking very fast. Angel is standing on the other side of the desk, and Connor has no idea how he didn’t notice him entering the room or coming closer. At least he doesn’t look angry, just worried, and his eyes go from the knife in Connor’s hands to the open drawer in front of him.

“Snooping?” Connor admits with a weak smile.

A muscle twitches in Angel’s jaw. “Found anything interesting?”

“Just this.” Connor turns the knife between his fingers and looks up at Angel again. For some unfathomable reason, he almost looks relieved. “Why did you keep it?”

Shrugging a little, Angel sits in the chair opposite Connor, fingers linked in front of him. “To remember you,” he says quietly. “Vail’s spell took away everything. All the pictures, your baby clothes, your plush toys. I had even bought you those tiny hockey sticks,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “They were gone too.”

“Hockey sticks?” Connor repeats, raising a curious eyebrow. 

Angel slides down in his chair. Connor has never seen him smile like that, like he’s remembering something happy. It’s… nice. Really nice.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was going to make you a hockey fan. We’d have gone out to games together. I’d have taken you to practice and completely embarrassed you while cheering from the stands. And of course you’d have been a complete genius on the ice.”   
Connor smiles. He could tell Angel that he’s actually not very good with skates on, whether they’re rollers or ice skates. He was always more into skateboarding. He doesn’t want to rob Angel of his remembered daydream, though, so all he says is, “That’d have been nice. I think I’d have liked that.”

Angel looks happy. Happier. Connor would worry about loopholes, but he doubts they’re anywhere near that. He doubts they ever could be, not with all the blood that flowed between them.

“I never played hockey,” he admits, vaguely apologetic. “But I was in a soccer team all through middle school and high school. We won a couple of tournaments.”

Angel’s smile wavers a little bit. “I’m sure you were great."

Connor wishes he hadn’t mentioned soccer. He’s not sure why he did. It’s not like he ever touched an actual soccer ball.

“I could get you a couple pictures if you’d like,” he offers, like a peace offering, an inadequate restitution for the pretty shiny thing he chipped, maybe broke, without meaning to.

“I don’t need pictures anymore,” Angel says with a slight shake of his head, and while he doesn’t add anything, it’s clear in the way he looks at Connor why he doesn’t.

Connor ducks his head, a little embarrassed, a little proud, but mostly just grateful that he is loved.

After a minute, Angel stands and walks around the desk. He pushes the drawer closed and leans back on the edge of the desk on Connor’s right. Connor looks up at him, but Angel’s gaze is still focused on the knife in his hands.

“So…” Angel clears his throat quietly. “How did things go with your—”

“Fine,” Connor says very fast; he can’t bear the thought of hearing Angel call Lawrence his father. “He apologized, actually. I think he’s still a bit confused but he’s trying to be accepting.”

Angel nods absently. He’s still not making eye contact with Connor. “That’s nice,” he says, his voice blank of emotions. “That you didn’t lose another father, I mean.”

Connor couldn’t tell whom Angel is talking about, Holtz or himself. He’s not even sure he wants to know. “Honestly, it’s hard to still think of him as my father. But at the same time, I can’t just forget it all.” He raises the knife to show Angel what he means. “You paid too much for me to just throw it all away.”

“We both did,” Angel murmurs, and the happiness that was lighting up his face just moments ago is completely gone, leaving behind a darkness that is all too familiar.

“But it was worth it,” Connor continues very softly. “I’m back where I belong, so it was worth it. Wasn’t it?”

Angel doesn’t reply, or at least not in words. He reaches for the back of Connor’s head and, cupping it gently, he pulls him forward and bends down to press a kiss to his forehead. Connor feels like he’s five, but it doesn’t even occur to him to protest.   
When Angel lets go, Connor shows him the knife again. “I’m keeping it. You don’t need to remember that anymore. I’ll get you a picture instead.”

The happiness slides back over Angel’s features when he nods. “Thank you.”

Connor stands and gestures to the door. “I should go. Spike has to be wondering where I am."

Angel nods again, this time without a word. Connor can feel his eyes on him all the way to the door, like he did just weeks ago, when he thought he could go back to being Connor Reilly even now that he knew he wasn't. He knows better, now. Pausing at the door like he wanted to, then, but didn't, he turns back, and sure enough, Angel is watching him go. Without quite knowing why, Connor wants to tell him he’s not going for good and he’ll see him tomorrow. He’d feel silly saying it, though, so instead he says a quick, “Love you, Dad,” and hurries away.

As the elevator takes him up to his apartment, all Connor can think is that he still loves Lawrence Reilly, he probably always will, but he’ll never be able to call him ‘Dad’ again.

*

Angel follows Connor to the door and watches him cross the lobby and climb into that elevator, like he watched him just weeks earlier. Then, he suspected that Connor had regained his memories, but he wasn’t completely sure. All he knew was that Connor was walking away from him. Again. Tonight, it’s different. Tonight, he leaves Angel with words, with a promise – with forgiveness. It’s not the first time he has done as much, not the first time he has told Angel to move on, and it’s getting a little easier to believe him every time he does. 

When the silver doors have closed, taking away Connor and his smile, Angel shuts his office door and goes back to his desk. He sits behind it, this time. Closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose. The leather smells a little bit like Connor. It’s even a little warm from his heat. Neither scent nor warmth will last – nothing will last much longer – but for now, it’s nice.

Usually, Angel tries not to be a selfish bastard – when it comes to Connor, especially, he has to try extra hard – but he can’t fool himself. He was hoping that Connor would come back and announce he had cut his ties to the Reillys and was now Angel’s son, and no one else’s. Finally. 

It’s better this way, though. Better that Connor made up with his… other father. He might need him, soon. His support. His shoulder to cry on, maybe. It will all depend on how things go in just a few days. Angel wishes he had an extra fighter to send in Spike’s place, keep him and Connor together, but he needs all hands on deck, or almost.

Feeling a little apprehensive, he opens the first drawer again. It seems oddly empty without the knife in it, but that’s not what Angel is worried about. The folder doesn’t look like it was disturbed, but when Angel picks it up, he brings it close to his nose. He doesn’t get even a hint of Connor’s scent. And anyway, he’s rather certain Connor would have mentioned it if he had looked inside. 

For a moment, he keeps the folder closed on his desk, his hand resting, as heavy as his soul, on top of it. When he finally opens it, he touches the first piece of paper the same way. He had Gunn draft that contract today, and swore him to secrecy. Tomorrow, it will be signed. In just a few days, it will be time to see just how foolproof it is. If there’s a loophole—

Refusing to think about that, Angel turns the page over, revealing the next sheet of paper. It’s the picture of Darla he drew for Connor a few days ago, a few lines of pencil to try and give a mother to his son. It wasn’t enough, of course not, but with a few words layered on top of it, he tried to complete the picture. Angel wonders if Spike will ever try to fill in the blanks, after. If Connor will ever ask him to.

He turns this piece of paper over as well. The next drawing is one of Connor in his crib, asleep and munching on his tiny fist. The next one shows Connor seconds after he jumped out of the portal, eyes blazing and anger pouring out of him, but all Angel could see was his son. Another drawing, and there’s little left in common between the feral boy from the previous picture and the happy boy in this one – but was he really happy under Jasmine’s spell? To all of them, until the veil was lifted, she was bliss, but Connor could see her for what she was from the start. The next drawing isn’t Angel’s son anymore; instead, it’s Connor Reilly, before he remembered, carefree and curious about Angel. 

There are a few blank pieces of paper in the folder. Pulling a pencil from the desk, Angel starts sketching without thinking, letting his memory guide his hand. He draws Connor’s face first, and spends long minutes getting his smile exactly right, until it’s a perfect mirror of the smile Connor offered him when he paused at the door and said he loved him. Unexpected words of affection are always the sweetest, and Angel is thinking about them still, about the way Connor’s voice sounded, as he sketches Connor’s arms, curled over his head, then his bare chest, and a sheet riding low over—

Angel stops abruptly and for the first time truly _sees_ what he has been drawing. Guilt sweeps over him, as cold and unexpected as a bucket of icy water. His hand is shaking as he drops the pencil and fumbles into the drawer for the book of matches he knows is in there. He only stops for a second after lighting up a match and stares at the drawing again. Connor is beautiful and it feels wrong to destroy his image. Angel can’t risk him snooping through his drawers again, though. He can’t risk anyone finding this. He should never have drawn it in the first place, shouldn’t allow his mind to wander down this path. Nothing good can possibly come out of it.

He finally picks up the drawing and lets the flame caress it. He shakes the match to extinguish it, but holds on to the drawing as it burns, watches the paper turn to ashes that scatter over his desk. He holds on to it until the flames lick his fingers.

The guilt still burns him long after he has cleaned up the mess.

*

Spike takes a last, deep drag on his cigarette before crushing what’s left of it in the overflowing ashtray. He hasn’t said much while Wesley was talking, and now that the story time is over, he’s not sure he can say anything at all. He’s been offered an insight into Connor, but it’s not really the Connor he knows, more like a shadow of him, and while it casts a different light on a few things Connor did or said, it doesn’t change Spike’s image of him, or even his feelings. 

There’s something he has to ask, though. “Does he know how Holtz died?”

Wesley puts down his box of take out and pushes it away from him on the kitchen island. Before he can say a word, the door opens and Connor walks in. Spike’s eyes zero in at once on the knife he’s passing from hand to hand like it was a toy.

“You didn’t wait,” Connor says as he comes over to the kitchen. “Good. I had dinner with Lawrence.”

 _Lawrence_ , Spike notes. Not _my father_. And yet they had dinner together. He wonders what it means, but he doesn’t want to ask with Wesley and Illyria around – not that she’s paying much attention to the conversation; she returned to the video games after descending on the crab Rangoon like there would be no tomorrow. Then again, for some of them, in a few days, there might not be.

“You just missed your father,” Wesley says, observing Connor curiously. “He just came over to give us our marching orders.”

Spike gives him a sharp look at that. What is Wesley playing at? He just promised Angel his silence and now… But Connor doesn’t pick up on the fact that Angel had told them to transmit his orders and wasn’t supposed to come. He just shrugs and goes to sit next to Illyria, watching her play for a while. Wesley finally notices Spike’s pointed glare and clears his throat. 

“Well, thanks for the food. I’m expecting a phone call tonight so I’ll leave you now.” 

He slides off the stool and looks at Illyria. She’s so engrossed in the game that she’s oblivious. Spike rolls his eyes and goes to stand in front of the television until she gets a clue, and it’s not soon enough that he closes the door on her recriminations and Wesley’s sighs. When he returns to the living room, Connor has picked up the game right where Illyria stopped. The knife he was playing with is still close at hand, resting next to his thigh on the sofa, and that’s all Spike can see.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the knife, as he sits next to Connor.

Connor’s eyes never even leave the screen. Spike has a flashback to their first night in the apartment, with Connor still reeling from their trip home, and it’s all he can do not to start snarling. The hell if he’s asking for Angel’s help this time.

“It’s a _knife_.”

Spike can hear the eyeroll in his words but he doesn’t let himself react to it, just like he doesn’t let himself reach for Connor. However much he wants to, he can’t, not yet, not until he knows where they’re standing, firm ground or unsteady slope. Not until he knows where Connor is in his head.

“Any reason why you thought you needed to come back with a knife?” he asks, and watches Connor very carefully for a reaction. He gets a slow blink before Connor pauses the game and turns a frown to him.

“You tell me. Do I _need_ a knife?”

“Depends.” Spike picks up the knife, trying his best not to appear threatening, and twirls it in his hand. “Plenty of things you can do with a blade. Some of them quite fun.”

Snorting quietly, Connor takes the knife back. He looks at it for a moment before turning a hard look to Spike. “I’m not so sure your definition of fun and mine are the same anymore.”

If Spike’s heart were beating, it would probably come to a grinding halt. Connor knows. Spike is sure of it. Angel must have told him. He doesn’t know _why_ Angel would do that, not with everything he’s been setting up, but he must have. There’s no other way—

“You want to tell me what you thought you were doing with Lawrence? You practically vamped in his face.”

Spike could sigh in relief. He still doesn’t know how he would explain the soul thing, even less so now that he has heard what Connor was taught in his previous life, but this? This is easy. He doesn’t even have to lie.

“I was afraid he’d hurt you again.” He reaches out for Connor’s face, cups it in his hand, and is relieved when Connor lets him. “And since you keep calling him Lawrence, I’m thinking I was right.”

Connor shakes his head. “Actually, he came to apologize. Give him a bit of time and stop trying to scare him and you might even be asked for dinner.”

The notion is so outlandish that Spike can’t help snickering. “I don’t care about dinner. I just want him to treat you right, luv.”

He leans in to press a kiss to Connor’s lips. He’s smiling when he pulls back, but Connor isn’t. Instead, he looks very serious as he repeats, “Treat me right. Sure. And asking someone else about my life, that’s treating me right?”

A sliver of ice enters Connor’s voice on the last words and chills Spike down to the bones. His hand slips off Connor’s face and he regrets losing contact at once, but he doesn’t dare raising his hand again. He’s not used to feeling so uncertain with someone he loves; he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like where this is going either.

“Percy mentioned Holtz and I just—”

A light snort interrupts him. “He just _happened_ to mention him, right. I can totally believe that.”

Sarcasm sounds wrong, coming from those lips. Spike switches gears and lets his voice harden a bit. He’s not going to apologize for wanting to know more about his boy.

“Would you have told me if I had asked?” He holds Connor’s gaze, and when Connor looks down at the knife he’s still absently playing with, Spike slips a finger beneath his chin and makes him look up again. “You’ve told me a lot of things since we first met. Things that hurt you. But you never told me about Holtz.”

Connor’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You’d better not be reproaching _me_ for keeping secrets or I’m going to get mad.”

Eyeing the knife warily, Spike can’t help but ask, “Does that mean you’re _not_ mad now?”

Connor sighs. “I get why you were angry with Lawrence, even if you went overboard. And honestly, I’d rather have someone else tell you about Holtz than have to do it myself.” His mouth twists into a grimace and he finishes almost in a whisper. “For the record, I do know how he died.”

It’s clear enough that the topic is closed, and Spike is fine with letting it go. He’s still not entirely sure where they stand, though. “So what’s with the knife?”

Frowning slightly, Connor looks at his hands, like he’s only now realizing he’s been twirling the knife between his fingers the entire time they talked. “It used to be…” He shrugs. “A proof.”

A soon as the words pass his lips, Connor looks like he regrets them. Spike can’t let it go that easily, though.

“A proof of what?”

Connor leans over to lay the knife on the coffee table next to the video game controller. Shiny plastic for the normal boy, wood and steel for the hunter, but it’s the mix of both that Spike loves. It’s the boy that doesn’t hesitate to push him back to lie into the sofa and settles on top of him, right in between his legs – a light blush creeping over his cheeks the entire time. The boy who breathes, “It doesn’t matter anymore,” before kissing him, lips like a caress and teeth scrapping hard against his mouth. The boy who was stolen, then given away, but who found his way back, both times, to his father. 

Spike knows about coming back. He’s done it often enough himself, sometimes without knowing whether he would be welcomed back or staked on sight. He hopes that, if it ever came to that, Connor would come back to him, too. He holds Connor a little tighter, and wishes he never had to let go.

*

With each passing day, Connor is a little more distracted. It’s hard to focus on his internship when he knows that in just a few days everything will change. He has to keep acting as though nothing is going on until then, but he can’t help but wonder: what about after? 

Surely he won’t be able to show up to work the day after the battle like nothing has happened. It’s a pity, because he likes what he’s doing, now that he’s actually trusted with something more interesting than delivering mail. He’s been promoted as assistant to Spencer, one of the main partners of the firm, and he’s been learning bits and pieces from him. He actually became comfortable enough with the whole thing to make a suggestion. Spencer listened, nodded, then explained why his idea wouldn’t work. But afterwards, he told Connor he could make suggestions again, and asked if he was seriously considering becoming an architect. 

Connor didn’t answer – mostly because he didn’t know _what_ to answer. He may have thought about it, back when he was nothing more than Connor Reilly, but now… Now he’s not sure it matters so much what careers he might have had an interest in. It was all decided before he was even born. The most surprising part of all is, he’s all right with that.

When he goes home that evening, he finds Spike on the sofa and a pizza on the coffee table. Spike flashes him a grin before returning his eyes to the television. His thumbs are flying on the game controls. Picking up a slice of pizza, Connor plops down next to him and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“I pulverized your high score,” Spike says, sounding awfully smug.

Connor snickers. “And how many hours did it take you to beat me? Admit it, you’ve been playing all day.”

Pausing the game, Spike turns an offended look at him. “Sore loser. I did not. I ordered you dinner, didn’t I? And I had a couple of cigarettes, too.”

Another snicker is muffled by a large bite of pizza. 

“Want to stay in tonight?” Spike suggests as he restarts the game. “We could watch a movie. Or…”

He looks at Connor again, and this time his eyes are pure hunger. Connor’s heart stutters, his cock twitches, and his mouth goes very dry suddenly.

“Maybe later,” he croaks, although what he really means is, _definitely later_. “There’s something I need to do. Will you come out with me?”

Spike’s smile fades a little. “I don’t really feel like patrol. You sure you don’t want to stay in? I’ll make it worth your while.”

He drops the remote and shifts on the sofa, climbing on all fours and crawling toward Connor. He holds Connor’s gaze as he takes the last bit of his pizza slice and drops it back in the box before pushing Connor back into the sofa. Connor licks his lips and arches up without thinking, his crotch meeting Spike’s for a too brief moment. He lets Spike kiss him, but when he pulls away again, eyes gleaming and the tip of his tongue licking at a bit of tomato sauce at the corner of his lips, Connor squirms a little and shakes his head.

“It’s not patrol I had in mind, actually,” he says breathlessly. “And it won’t take very long. Please?”

It hasn’t taken him very long to figure out that ‘please’ really is a magic word with Spike – unless they’re in bed, in which case he needs more than that, and Connor is not thinking about that now because if he does, they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, and Connor really wants to do this. He’s not sure when he’ll have another chance for it.

They’re out of the building only moments after nightfall, Connor leading the way, his hand tight over Spike’s. It takes him a little while to remember where he saw what he’s looking for during a previous night out, but it helps that his sense of direction is freakishly good. 

When they get there, Spike blinks slowly then turns a curious eyebrow at him. “A picture booth? Are you kidding me?”

Connor shrugs and ducks his head, looking at him through his eyelashes. “I promised my father a picture,” he says, and wishes he couldn’t feel the beginning of a blush warming his cheeks. “And I want a picture of you. I mean, of us.”

If Spike asks for an explanation, Connor might be ready to tell him he realized he doesn’t have a single picture that’s real. He has tons of fabricated ones, yes, as many of them as he has overly perfect memories. He needs something that’s real, something that shows the person he really is – or at least, the person he is now.

Spike doesn’t ask, though. He brushes the back of his fingers to Connor’s cheek and nods. “All right. But I want one too.”

They get into the booth together, arms around each other, and Connor slides quarters in the slot. At the first flash, they’re just sitting side by side. At the second, their heads are pressed together. The third one catches Spike pressing a kiss to his neck, and on the last one they’re looking at each other and grinning a bit goofily. Looking at the freshly printed strip, Connor figures he’ll give Angel the first picture, give Spike his choice and keep the last two, but Spike is already sliding more money in the machine.

“Angel can have that strip,” he says with a wolfish grin. “I want something a bit more interesting.”

More interesting, apparently, means kissing Connor within an inch of his life. Breathing hard and blinking very fast, Connor watches the second strip come out. His eyes are closed on three of the small pictures, his head tilted back, and he looks like he’s enjoying himself – a lot – Which he did. His dick feels heavy against his thigh, and he’s grateful that he has a few seconds to cool down behind the booth’s curtain before he has to get up and walk through the store.

“Hmm.” Spike considers the strip of pictures thoughtfully. “Better, but still not quite what I had in mind. You can have that one.”

Before Connor can ask what he does have in mind, Spike’s hand is on his crotch, pressing against his cock.

“S-Spike!” Connor hisses, and trying to keep his voice quiet while sounding stern doesn’t work so well. Instead he sounds… needy. And he’s pretty sure he should be stopping Spike, but somehow he can’t manage to do a thing when a hand unbuttons his pants and sneaks inside his boxers. He presses his head back against the back of the booth and lets his eyes narrow down to slits. He should stop Spike, he knows that, anyone could pull the curtain open at any moment and then nevermind the embarrassment factor, they’d get arrested for indecent exposure or something along those lines, and Connor really doesn’t want to have to tell his father he couldn’t stop Spike from jerking him off in a public place.

It’s only when he hears Spike laugh quietly that he realizes he said that last bit aloud. “Who d’you think taught me how much fun this could be?” he whispers in the shell of Connor’s ear, and there’s really no way to say no anymore after that, not when Spike’s fist is so tight as it slides over his cock, twisting over the head in a move that should probably be illegal.

Connor barely hears the coins slide down the machine, barely sees the flash winking at him four times. All he can do is feel Spike’s hand on his cock, his mouth on Connor’s neck, and when both hand and mouth retreat, he grunts in protest. By the time his vision has cleared, Spike has already pocketed the picture strip and closed Connor’s pants again over his painfully hard cock. The smirk on his face when he pulls Connor out of the booth and through the store is absolutely insufferable.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Connor breathes when they finally reach the street after what feels like hours. He’s pretty sure everyone in the store was looking at them and knew exactly what they had been up to. His voice drops to an angry whisper – anger toward Spike for what he did or himself for what he’s about to say, he couldn’t tell. “And I can’t believe you _stopped_.” 

Spike laughs. “Let me make it up to you, then, luv.”

He drags Connor to the nearest intersection and turns into an alley. There’s another intersection a hundred yards in, and that one opens onto a cul de sac. It’s the back of the store they were just in, Connor realizes absently. No direct light, no windows, just bare walls and a battered dumpster. Spike pulls him further in and pushes his back to the wall. His hands are already unbuttoning Connor’s pants again by the time Connor understands what he’s up to.

“Here?” he practically squeaks. “Someone could walk in on us or—oh god.”

It’s hard to think when Spike smirks at him like that, the tip of his tongue just peeking out while he’s pushing Connor’s boxers down his legs. Hard to remember why this is such a bad idea when Spike drops to his knees and licks a long strip from his balls to the very tip of his cock. Hard to care that this is just the kind of places vampires love or that he could swear he can feel eyes on him when Spike’s mouth opens and draws him in. Leaning fully against the wall at his back, Connor looks down and slides his fingers through Spike’s hair, watching his cheeks hollowed out and then bulging as he slides his mouth over Connor’s cock. He’s beautiful, but Connor can’t even begin to tell him that.

“Oh fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut when Spike’s tongue curls around the crown of his cock. “Damn, Spike, I’m not—” He has to take a sharp breath in before he can finish. “—gonna last.”

The vibrations of Spike’s laughter wrap around his cock, shake him from head to toes, and he moans aloud when Spike pulls back. “No one’s asking you to,” Spike says, grinning widely, as he pumps Connor’s cock in his fist. “Want you to fuck my mouth, now. Ok?”

He doesn’t let Connor reply. Instead, he takes Connor’s cock in his mouth again and gives him a look, _that_ look, and Connor is lost. His fingers tighten on each side of Spike’s head, holding him in place as he starts to thrust into his mouth. The first couple of slides are slow ones, but Connor’s self control is in short supply. Spike asked him - _told_ him – to fuck his mouth, and that’s exactly what Connor does, deep grunts escaping his clenched teeth as he pushes himself deeper inside Spike’s mouth.

He can hardly believe he’s doing this, doing it here, and again the fear of being discovered flashes through him – and urges him onward. Again, he pictures himself having to explain to Angel why he was arrested, what he and Spike were doing—

“Oh _god_.”

His eyes shut tight as he comes, hips jerking uncontrollably into the tight seal formed by Spike’s lips. When his cock has stopped twitching, his knees are ready to give in, but Spike’s arms slip around him as he stands and presses his body against Connor’s. The feel of rough denim against his over stimulated cock has Connor groaning into Spike’s mouth, but he presses back and never even thinks of pulling away.

“I want to fuck you,” Spike whispers, nibbling at Connor’s lips.

A shiver runs through Connor and he clenches his hands on Spike’s duster. “Ok."

“I want to fuck you here,” Spike continues, voice as thick as fudge, and Connor kisses him again to taste it, taste himself on his tongue.

“Ok,” he mumbles, mind too blank to do anything other than agree.

“I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

His mouth is already opening, the words already forming on his tongue, but Spike isn’t finished.

“I want you to ask _properly_ , luv. Show me what a _good_ boy you are.”

Connor blinks. He knows what Spike wants, what he wants to hear, but it’s hardly the same thing to play this game in the safety of their bedroom as it is to do so now - here. Part of him wants to say no, wants to ask that they go home and he’ll do anything Spike wants there, he’ll say anything, get on his knees and beg if that's what it takes. But when Spike cants his hips forward and presses his cock, long and hard, against Connor’s reawakening dick, when he smoothes his hands down Connor’s sides, when he looks at him with pure, raw need lighting his eyes ablaze, there’s only one thing Connor can say.

“Please fuck me, Daddy.”

*

When they first enter the alley, Angel knows he should walk away.

He tries.

He can’t.

This is not why he followed them out. He wanted to make sure that they’d be safe, that Spike had listened to him and wouldn’t let Connor fight. He didn’t imagine they would… do this. Not in an alley. Not like this.

Then again, he should have guessed. He knows Spike well enough. Knows how persuasive Spike can be, how talented his mouth is, and when Spike sinks to his knees in front of Connor, Angel wishes he were down there in the alley with them rather than on top of the roof. He grips the edge of the low wall with one hand to hold himself upright and doesn’t dare blinking for fear he’d miss a second of it.

It’s wrong, he repeats to himself as he watches Spike’s head move over Connor’s crotch. So very wrong. He has no business being there, watching them. No right to drink in the sight of them as though it were fine wine offered to him. He shouldn’t listen to Spike’s laugh, to his words, not when they are so clearly for Connor’s ears only. He shouldn’t look at Connor’s hands and wonder how tightly they hold Spike’s head in place. He shouldn’t hope for a better look at Connor’s cock, shouldn’t swallow hard like he’ll feel him at the back of his throat like Spike must be feeling him now. He definitely shouldn’t slip a hand down his pants when Connor’s rhythm picks up, when his grunts grow louder, when his body jerks and goes rigid. And he shouldn’t want to go down to that alley to see better, to see how clear his son’s eyes are when he’s sated, to see how beautiful he is with pleasure still coursing through him.

He remains on the roof, although it’s not an effect of his strength of will. Instead, it’s the direct result of this simple fact: his hand on the wall is the only thing holding him upright. If he lets go, he’ll fall to his knees. If his other hand lets go – tight ring at the base of his cock – he’ll fall even deeper still.

He keeps watching as Spike kisses his son – and oh, how he wishes it were his lips on Spike’s now just so he could get a taste. Keeps listening as dirty whispers rise up in the night, and he knows this tone, knows how Spike could seduce anyone when he asks for something like this, he could ask for the stars and surely they would dance for him like they did for Drusilla. His voice is sweet as syrup, thick as molasses, his words sinking in deep and—

“Please fuck me, Daddy.”

A flash of red as bright as fresh blood swallows the world. When Angel’s vision clears again, he looks down to find that his pants are stained; his hand, wet and sticky. He should care about that, should worry for his soul – not about how he might lose it, but rather how he could play the hero for a thousand lifetimes and still not be able to wash away those stains. His mind is still blank when he looks down at the alley again. He has to bite down his own lips not to groan at what he sees.

Connor is facing the wall, hands splayed on the dirty bricks and holding him steady as Spike fucks him from behind. His head is bowed, Spike’s hand clenched tight at the back of his neck. Angel wants to growl at how possessive that hand is, as possessive as the words that fall from Spike’s lips, calling Connor a good boy. Calling him _his_.

Every time a breathless _daddy_ rises from Connor’s mouth, Angel wants to rip his own heart out – or maybe Spike’s. He wants to jump down to that alley and pull Spike off his son - _his_ , damn it! He wants to cover Connor’s mouth with his own and take in every sound that passes his lips. He wants to touch himself again.

It doesn’t take long before he does at least that much.

Spike’s rhythm is harsh, almost punishing for all the sweet words he bestows on Connor like tender caresses. Angel can’t follow him, and his hand moves as slowly as he can bear. After coming so hard, even that gentle a touch is almost too much, but he can’t _not_ touch, not when his boys’ pleasure is right there, almost at his fingertips, rising on the wind with every breath they share.

Every breath he wishes he could share with them.

He watches them rut against each other. Watches them go still together. Watches Spike return to his knees and clean up Connor, lap at his own come. All Angel can think is that Spike’s mouth must taste like both of them now, both their come mixed together, and he’d give anything for a kiss. He watches still as Spike tugs Connor’s close in place, turns him around and draws him into his arms. He watches them walk away, still wrapped around each other. 

He’s never felt more lonely than he does now, unzipping his pants, tugging his cock out and bringing himself to a joyless, almost painful climax.

Hands buried deep in his pockets, he holds his coat closed in front of him, hiding the drying stains on his pants. The scent of his own shame clings to him, though, as inescapable as the images and words dancing through his mind.

He’s trying not to think about it, not to wonder—

No, no wondering at all. He doesn’t need to drive himself insane with those thoughts.

Besides, he already _is_ insane. His name signed in blood on a piece of paper says as much.

It’s not soon enough that he reaches the Wolfram & Hart building. He can see the elevator doors closing ahead of him and hurries, slides his hand between them until they open again. When they do, he wishes he had let them close, and remains frozen right on the threshold.

“Get in already,” Spike says, rolling his eyes at him. “Or get out. But don’t just stand there.”

Connor is tucked in against his shoulder, eyelids heavy and a lazy smile drawn on his lips. He raises his head when Angel walks onto the elevator, gives him a glance as full of embarrassment as it is brief. When he drops his gaze to the floor, his cheeks are flushed, the color as delicate as painted porcelain.

As soon as the doors close and the elevator starts moving, Angel regrets getting in. He can still smell his own come, but now he can smell theirs too, and he doesn’t know which is worse. He doesn’t know either what they’ll think when they notice his scent. He stands in the corner, leaning back against the wall, as far from them as he can, and tries not to look at them, tries not to notice how close they are, how comfortable with each other, like sharing the same space is as normal as fucking in back alleys. Tries not to envy them.

They’re halfway to their floor when Connor clears his throat, and Angel’s heart sinks to his stomach as he is sure that Connor will ask why he smells like come. Instead, Connor pulls a strip of paper from his jacket’s pocket and holds it out to him. After a beat, Angel takes it with his left hand – the one that was holding on to the wall, the one that isn’t covered in dried come. The right one is still holding his coat over his stained pants.

“I said I’d get you a picture,” Connor says, sounding a little embarrassed still. “So… there you go.”

Angel looks down at the photo strip in his hand. It’s not what he expected. He thought Connor would give him a picture of him playing soccer, or from his high school graduation maybe, wearing those silly robes and hat. Instead, he finds himself looking at portraits of Connor and Spike together, smiling and looking at each other like they don’t have a care in the world. Like their world might not come to an end in just a few days.

The contrast between those innocent shots and the less innocent images still swirling in Angel’s head is jarring, but he manages a nod and a grateful if slightly choked up, “Thank you.”

Connor nods back, ducking his head a little, but Spike laughs and pulls the strip from Angel’s hand. Angel glares at him, with no result.

“You’re staring at this thing like it holds all the secrets of the universe. Let me see.” He peers down at the strip, a smirk tugging at his lips. “No secret here, just the prettiest boy in the world.” He pauses for effect, then adds, “Oh and Connor isn’t too bad either.”

Connor buries a laugh against Spike’s neck, the sound low and carefree. Something inside Angel just aches.

“Give it back to him,” Connor says, pulling back just as the elevator reaches their floor.

Spike does so with a flourish and a wide grin before following Connor out of the elevator, and if Connor offers a simple, “Night Dad,” Spike adds a pointed, “Sweet dreams.”

When Angel looks at the pictures in his hand again, it’s not sweet smiles that look back at him anymore. Instead, it’s a different strip, and on that one Connor looks like he’s about to come, eyes narrowed to slits and mouth open on a moan that Angel doesn’t need to imagine – he knows _exactly_ what it sounds like. Spike’s mouth is at his throat, and he looks straight at the camera, looking awfully pleased with himself. There's no need to wonder where his hands are.

Blood rushes to Angel’s cock yet again, and it’s with a blank mind and some difficulty that he steps out of the elevator. His apartment is on the right, but without thinking he looks left, catching just a glimpse of Connor as he passes the door. Catching Spike’s eyes before he follows, and there’s no doubt in Angel’s mind. Spike knows he was on that roof, knows he saw and heard everything they did, every word they said.

Those pictures are just a way to remind Angel of what he can never have. He doesn’t know whether he should thank Spike, beat him senseless or fuck him into the nearest available surface. He does none of these thing, though, and simply goes back to his loft, alone, one hand closed in a tight fist, the other holding the picture strip like the most precious treasure.

*

As soon as the elevator doors close on a slightly disheveled Connor, Spike walks over to Angel’s penthouse. He’s not feeling very patient this morning, and waiting for the elevator to go all the way down then come back up does not sound that appealing. Not when he’s been waiting since the previous night to hear what Angel thought of the pictures – and of the show. Not when he has a gift to offer, right on the tip of his tongue.

As soon as he steps out of the elevator, Angel turns a frown to him, then gives him his filthiest glare. “You fucking bastard.”

Holding back a grin, Spike shakes his head. “I’m a bastard, and you’re a dirty old man.” He walks over to the doors and closes them, then locks them before turning back to Angel. “Playing peeping Tom on your boys, now? What’s next, cameras in our bedroom?”

Angel’s jaw clenches and unclenches, the clicking sound audible even before Spike crosses the room back to stand by the chair across the desk. 

“I just wanted to make sure he was safe,” Angel snaps. “And that you remembered what I told you. How was I supposed to know you’d be fucking right in the middle of the street?”

Spike shrugs, and allows a smile to flirt on his lips. “You know I remember. But if that’s the excuse you need to tell yourself, be my guest. Just don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy the show.”

Angel’s hands clench on the edge of the desk. His face ripples to the demon mask for just a second. “Fuck you.”

“He does,” Spike replies without missing a beat. “Likes to give as much as he likes to take.” His best smirk to the front, he walks around Angel’s desk and leans back against it. “Definitely an improvement over you.”

Eyes flashing toward him, Angel all but growls. “Spike.”

It’ll take more than words to stop him and he’s actually surprised Angel hasn’t tried to hit him yet. Maybe he doesn’t mind the topic as much as he pretends he does…

“Boy has a beautiful cock,” Spike says, voice low like he’s at confession. “And he knows how to use it too. Bet you’d like a picture of that.” 

There’s no absolution coming down from Angel, just an order that sounds like a plea. “Shut your mouth.”

Spike’s grin widens, right along with his eyes. “But if I do that then you can’t get a taste, Daddy.”

Angel’s slow blink is his only answer. He doesn’t even react when Spike pushes his way closer and climbs onto his lap, legs dangling on either side of him and hands resting lightly on his shoulders. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t want a turn when you watched me suck him off.” 

And Angel can shake his head, he can say “Don’t”, he can look as mean, as angry, as ready for violence as he wants, there’s no hiding the way his cock twitches against Spike’s.

“I blew him not ten minutes ago,” Spike whispers, sugar words that draw Angel’s eyes to his lips. “All dressed up for work, he was, but I was neat. Didn’t spill one drop, just like my Daddy taught me. And the poor lad will have to run to be on time, but he’ll be smiling all. Day. Long.”

A sharp intake of breath, and Spike is sure Angel can smell Connor’s come now that he knows it’s there. His hands close on Spike’s hips like he doesn’t know whether to push him away or draw him closer.

Spike bats his eyelashes, and all he has to do is think of Connor to remember what coyness looks like. “Do you want a taste of your boy, Daddy?” 

He remains very still after that; he’s not patient, but he can fake it when he has to. This is Angel’s move. It has to be, or Angel will always claim Spike forced his hand – not that he isn’t doing exactly that with every word and calculated gesture.

And Angel does move. He leans forward, very slowly, and just brushes his lips to Spike's. Comes back at once, and this time it’s a deeper kiss, hungry, greedy, and Spike lets him search every last bit of his mouth for another hint of Connor. 

“Doesn’t he taste sweet?” Spike murmurs against Angel’s lips when he pulls back.

Angel’s eyes are closed. He is shaking so hard that, for a second, Spike is sure he’s about to be thrown down on his ass. But Angel doesn’t move. He just takes in a deep, unsteady breath, lets it out in a quiet, “Yeah.”

Unseen by Angel, Spike smiles to himself. _Now_ they’re getting somewhere. 

“I knew you were there,” he whispers into the shell of Angel’s ear. “Knew you were watching your boys. Listening.” 

Angel is still trembling. He lowers his head, like he can hide now, like Spike hasn’t seen everything he is, even the parts he barely even acknowledges himself.

“He only calls me Daddy when I’m fucking him,” he continues, just as quietly so he won’t break the moment. “Balls deep in that tight ass, and his eyes go all wide and a little bit wet.” He slides his hand down Angel’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. “Mouth like a rose and his heart in my hand. And he calls me Daddy and means it.” 

His fingers slide against the length of Angel’s cock. It’s hard, twitching a little, and Spike is all too happy to free it from the confines of tailored pants. It always fits so well in his hand. Always did. 

“Did it get you hard to hear him?” He doesn’t expect Angel to answer, and so he doesn’t even pause. “I bet it did. Bet you’d have wanted to fuck him, right in that alley. Make him cry out for you like he did for me. Bet you touched yourself.” 

He squeezes Angel’s cock, palm wet and slick with precome, and presses a chuckle into his neck. 

“No, I _know_ you did. You smelled like come in that lift. If he hadn’t been so buzzed, he’d have known. Maybe he’d even have guessed what you’d done. What you’d seen. Bet he would have blushed like a sunset. He’s so pretty when he blushes. You can practically taste it.”

He licks a long strip up Angel’s neck, like he does to Connor, sometimes, when the blood is rushing so fast just beneath his skin that Spike can feel every beat of his heart.

“Why are you doing this?” Angel asks, tilting his head away and just out of reach.

Spike leans back and looks at him. Meets eyes that are dark and wild, confused and lost.

“Why wouldn’t I, Daddy?” he says, dropping his voice just a little lower.

Angel’s hands clench on Spike’s thighs. “Because you’re a bastard,” he says calmly, “but you’re nor cruel. Not without reason.”

It’s Spike’s turn to be confused. His hand slows down on Angel’s cock, then stops completely as he considers him curiously. “How am I being cruel? I’m sharing—”

“You, sharing?” Angel cuts in, and now he’s getting angry. “With _me_? No. You’re not sharing. You’re teasing me. You’re dangling what I can’t have in front of me.”

Definitely angry, but he’s all but admitting he wants Connor, now. Progress.

Spike rewards him with one slow, twisting tug from root to tip. “What if you could have it?” he asks, eyes narrowed to slits.

Angel grits his teeth, turns his head away, grunts, “Don’t,” but he’s still not pushing Spike away.

Spike rests his free hand on Angel’s cheek, draws him back. “Look at me, you idiot.” He can’t help but smile. Hopeless, both of them; like father, like son. “Just pretend for a minute that I’m not fucking with your head. If I said you can get in our bed, would you?” 

“No.”

If anyone else answered that fast, Spike would think they’re sure of themselves. From Angel, right now, it only confirms what he already knows: Angel is a professional martyr. He’s no saint, though, and he apparently needs to remind himself why he’s saying no.

“He’s my son.”

“Yes Daddy,” Spike says, and refrains to roll his eyes. “He’s your boy. The same boy you lost how many times? Did you ever find him again? Really find him? Or do you have nightmares about looking for him everywhere and not being able to find him?” 

It’s a stab in the dark, and there’s no flash of surprise on Angel’s face to tell Spike he aimed right, but just the same _something_ twists his features. Maybe Spike is wrong about the nature of the nightmares, but he’d bet his life that there _are_ nightmares. And so he can push just a little more.

“If you’d raised the kid and wanted to bed him, I’d take him as far away from you as I’d take him from Angelus.” And he really would, without the sliver of a hesitation; he searches Angel’s eyes until he’s sure Angel believes him, and then he continues. “But all you two ever did was talk with your fists. Hurt each other. And now that you’re not doing that anymore, it’s like you’re both trying to dance without hearing the same music.” 

“Stop.” Angel’s hand closes over Spike’s wrist, stills it when Spike is sure it’d only take a few more strokes to make him pop. “Just stop,” he repeats, his voice breaking a bit, and he’s not just talking about the handjob. “Please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that makes Spike relent. He’s not used to that word on the old man’s lips, but he says it just as sweetly as Connor does. He lets go of Angel’s cock, slips off his lap, even walks away and out of the office. He goes all the way to the staff room, pours a cup of coffee so hot it’s steaming, and returns to Angel’s office, locking the door again behind him. Angel doesn’t even look up from holding his head in both hands.

“Go ‘way, Spike.”

Spike doesn’t reply. He returns to the desk, and with a hand on the back of Angel’s chair, turns it toward him. Angel buttoned his shirt, closed his pants again, but he’s still hard. Of course.

With an eyeroll, Spike slips to his knees and puts down the coffee cup on the floor for a moment.

“What now?” Angel sighs.

Spike’s hands are already unfastening his pants again. “Now I’m finishing what I started. And you… you just close your eyes and let me.”

The bastard sighs again, like Spike just promised him pain instead of a blowjob. He’s lucky Spike is in such a tolerant mood or there would be fangs on his dick, and not playful ones. He does close his eyes, though, and so he doesn’t see Spike take a mouthful of coffee, doesn’t see him swish it in his mouth, rude and gross, maybe, but it’s worth it for that startled gasp when Spike’s warmed mouth takes Angel’s cock all the way to the root.

When he pulls back, Angel is looking down at him with wide eyes.

“Like it?” Spike asks. “That’s what it feels like when he does me. Hot as hell.”

Another mouthful of coffee, and when he gets closer to Angel again, thick fingers slide in his hair, tighten almost to the point of pain. Spike is sure Angel will stop him. Instead, he pulls him forward, leads Spike’s mouth back to his cock and holds him there. 

Spike doesn’t even try to make it last; Angel was too close anyway. He sucks hard, no finesse, just constant pressure that draws wordless gasps from Angel’s lips and small, ineffectual thrusts of his hips. When Spike looks up, Angel’s eyes are closed, his face twisted like he’s trying to push back his climax. It doesn’t work very long. When he comes, the breathless, sobbed name that falls from his lips like from heaven isn’t Spike’s – and Spike really couldn't care less.

Resting his head against Angel’s thigh, Spike looks up at him, lets him run his hand in his hair like he’s petting Spike, watches him slowly come down from his high. He could tell the exact second when the guilt returns.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to.”

Angel doesn’t reply.

Two weeks gone by, Spike would have left Angel to his shame. He might not have come to him at all. But things are different now, and it’s not about Spike’s lack of soul. Instead, it’s about how Angel reacted to that, how he gave Spike what he needed. How Connor did the same, without even realizing it. 

There’s only one way Spike can ever thank them. He can give them what they need, too. And he will.

*

As he fastens the first button, Connor glances at the alarm clock and sighs; he has only a few minutes to finish getting ready. 

The last thing he wants is to go out tonight, but he doesn’t have a choice. Like last time, Sebassis invited _him_ to dinner. Like last time, Angel is his plus one. Unlike last time, Connor tried to object, although he might have had more reasons to do so than he admitted. It was useless. Angel needs to be at Sebassis’ tonight; the entire plan hinges on it. Connor knew that even when he went to Angel two days ago. The minute and a half it took Angel to say no was the extent of the time Connor spent with his father since he gave him those pictures; preparations have taken all of Angel’s time, and Spike all of Connor’s.

Seated on the bed, an ashtray in front of his crossed legs and a cigarette between his fingers, Spike is watching him get dressed through a curtain of smoke. His smoking has been getting worse, in the past few days. Ever since the first dinner at Sebassis’, actually. At least once a night, Connor wakes up to find himself alone in bed, and only needs to follow the smell of smoke to the kitchen and its open window to find Spike. The smell is irritating, but Connor, so far, hasn’t said anything about it. Spike’s nerves are frayed; Connor gets that. He’s just as nervous. They’re not talking about it but there’s no doubt in his mind that everything could change tomorrow night. Everything could end. 

He would have taken out his anxiety fighting, but ever since they fucked in that alley, Spike has found excuses to stay home every night. Well, one excuse, really. Sex. And as far as dispelling nervousness, it has worked pretty well. So did five hours in one of the training rooms downstairs on Saturday, and just as many on Sunday. Every single one of Connor’s muscles _ached_ when he went to work this morning. It didn’t last, and he’s fine, now. And he is ready for the fight tomorrow night, both physically and mentally. As he watches Spike crush down yet another cigarette stub, as he notices how the circles around his eyes have deepened, darkened again, Connor can only wonder if Spike is ready too. He hopes he is. But he’s scared, more than he cares to admit. 

Sliding off the bed, Spike comes to him, barefoot and bare-chested; beautiful. Connor wishes he could stay home. He wishes he could stay with Spike. Not just because of those too many cigarettes and dark circles. Not just because of rippling abs and seemingly unending stamina. Rather, because Spike’s face is blank, expressionless, like it was the last time Connor was getting ready for a dinner like this one.

Connor remembers all too well the two days that followed. He remembers that void in his chest when he didn’t know where Spike was, or whether he’d ever see him again. He knows he’ll feel like that tomorrow, when Spike goes to save that baby while Connor’s assignment takes him across town. It would have been nice if they could have fought together, and he’s a little surprised, in fact, that Spike didn’t protest when Angel told them they’d fight separately. He expected him to argue the point, and now that it’s too late, he’s sorry he didn’t protest himself.

“Let me,” Spike says coolly, hands already rising to finish buttoning Connor’s shirt. 

Connor’s hands drop to Spike’s waist, slide around his back, and he remains both still and silent as Spike fastens the rest of the buttons, tucks in his shirt, knots the tie he picked up for Connor earlier. The gentle gestures, fingers smoothing fabric and caressing all at once, are certainly nicer than Spike’s outright anger last time, but Connor can’t help wondering what the change means.

“I wish you could come,” he says softly when Spike is done, and brushes a kiss to his lips.

Spike’s mouth twists on a half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Are you…” He swallows the lump in his throat, small ball of fear that has no reason to be. “Are you going to go out?”

 _Like last time_ is what he means, but he doubts he needs to say it. Spike remembers too. 

“No, I’ll stay home this time.” Spike draws him closer, wraps his arms around him, buries his face against Connor’s neck, and breathes his last words into his skin. “Wait for my boy to come back to me.”

Connor shivers and closes his eyes. His cock is twitching, pressed against Spike’s thigh, and that’s really not a good thing, not now when he needs to go. Spike is playing dirty. But then, doesn’t he always?

“You’re terrible,” Connor says as he pulls away to grab his jacket. He expects Spike to laugh, even braces himself for the warmth that always radiates through him when he hears that sound, but it never comes, and when he looks back at Spike, he finds that blank mask again, the one he has no idea how to interpret.

“Need you to remember something for me,” Spike says softly, pulling Connor back to him with a finger hooked behind his belt. “I love you.”

Connor’s lips are still tingling when Spike finally lets him go. His cock is still half-hard. And he’s still feeling vaguely guilty – for leaving Spike behind or for giving the impression he could forget Spike loves him, he couldn’t say.

He enters Angel’s apartment without knocking. He finds Angel sitting on the edge of the armchair, fingers linked in front of him, and for just the blink of an eye Connor thinks he might be praying.

Does his father pray? Does he believe in that god? Connor is taken aback to realize he’s not completely sure. Angel believes in doing good, certainly, but does it go beyond that? Have they ever talked about it? So many memories, and he can’t remember that. He can still quote the Bible, either from learning to read from it or from too many years of Sunday school, but he can’t remember talking about religion with Angel. Not that he particularly wants to; it’s just one more thing they haven’t talked about. One more thing he doesn’t know about Angel. So many questions, and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he just doesn’t.

“Ready?” he asks after clearing his throat.

Angel looks up and stands. “Yes, let’s…” His voice trails off and he frowns, just barely. “I’ve got a tie just like that.”

Smoothing a hand down the tie, Connor chuckles quietly. “Yeah, I figured that’s where Spike found it.” When Angel’s frown deepens, he explains, “When I started getting dressed he decided he didn’t like the tie I had picked. He went out and came back too fast to have gone very far. I thought you might have given it to him.”

Angel shakes his head. “I was working. I just came up.” He shrugs a little, his gaze rising from the tie to meet Connor’s eyes. “It’s pretty on you. Matches your eyes.”

Which is what Spike said when he handed it to Connor, and there’s certainly no reason for Connor to blush over it. He looks away, gestures vaguely toward the elevator. “Should we go?”

Standing next to Angel as the elevator takes them down to the garage doesn’t make anything better, however, not when Connor’s mind insist on replaying through the last time he was in an elevator with Angel – and what he had been doing with Spike just minutes before. To distract himself, he clears his throat again, and pulls out the car keys from his pocket. They jingle a little when he turns the key ring on his finger.

“I’ll drive.”

Angel makes a small noise that might be agreement, and after a slight pause he asks, “Who taught you?”

Connors briefly glances at him before looking at the floors display again. The ride has never seemed so long. “How to drive? My mother,” he replies without thinking, and immediately wants to kick himself. “I mean, Colleen.”

They finally reach the garage and Connor steps out, almost grateful. 

“It’s all right, you know,” Angel says behind him, his voice a little gruff. “You can call her your mother. And you can call Lawrence—”

Turning back to him, Connor shakes his head just once. “No, Dad. I can’t call him that. Not anymore.”

He goes over to Sharona without waiting for Angel to reply. He trails a hand over smooth metal as he walks to the passenger side. He unlocks the door and opens it before walking around to the driver side. Angel is already inside by the time he sits in – and Connor can only wonder why in hell he just did that.

Teeth clenched and hands trembling a bit, he starts the car. His foot slips on the accelerator and the engine stalls. His face feels like it was sunburned, and he has to fight the impulse to loosen his tie. He’s grateful that Angel refrains from commenting as he starts the car again. He’s grateful, also, that he remembers where he’s going so that he doesn’t need to ask for directions.

For a while there is no other sound other than the purring of the engine until Angel asks, “You like the car, then?”

As small talk goes, it’s a pretty lame attempt, but Connor can’t exactly throw stones, especially when the only answer that comes to mind is, “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

He rolls his eyes at the road. He could have said a space rocket goes pretty fast and been just as accurate.

He doesn’t look at Angel but can hear the smile in his voice. “I thought so too. It was my favorite.”

“Until Spike stole it, you mean,” Connor says, a grin pushing to his lips.

Angel snorts. “He does have this thing about taking what’s mine.”

Once again, Connor’s mouth bypasses his brain. “Like he took me.”

“For example, yes,” Angel says after a beat, and there’s no trace of a smile left in his voice.

Thankfully they’re just about there, and that strand of thought is cut short. As Connor parks the car, Angel admonishes him not to antagonize anyone this time. Connor follows that advice all throughout the dinner, which means he’s quiet for the most part, listening absently to the conversation. Some of it he doesn’t care to hear; he’d rather think what's on his plate is beef rather than try to picture the demon Sebassis is describing. Other things he doesn’t quite understand, like those allusions to a contract that was apparently signed recently, allusions that Angel stops abruptly with just two words: confidentiality clause. 

And then there are things he’s afraid he understood all too well.

His mind suddenly blank, he stares at Sebassis across the table. The thin smile on the demon’s face is enough to let him know a reaction is expected out of him after that too casual mention of Spike’s soul. For a second, Angel’s silence and absolute stillness at his side makes him think he’s not the only one whose world was just turned upside down, but when he looks at his father, it’s not surprise he finds on his face. Instead, it's wariness. It can only mean one thing: Angel knew. That’s what they’ve been keeping from him. He feels like retching.

With slow, deliberate movements, Connor picks up the wine glass he hasn’t touched all evening. He drinks deep, and doesn’t even taste the wine on his tongue. He holds the glass up for a servant to refill.

The rest of the evening is a blur. He’s not drunk. He still hears every word, sees every gesture, every twitch of lips and sideways glance, he’s even pretty sure he could tell exactly when Angel makes his move and sets everything in motion for the next day, but these moments disappear as soon as they happen. There’s only room for one thought in Connor’s mind, one question, but he can’t ask it now, he has to wait. It’s not soon enough that they say their goodbyes and return to the car. 

This time, when Connor turns the key, the engine doesn’t stall. Instead, it roars like thunder, as loud as the overwhelming thought bouncing through Connor’s mind. And he still can't say a word, too scared to get confirmation. He _knows_ , but at the same time, until he talks about it, he can pretend he might be imagining things.

Too fast, the Wolfram & Hart building appears just a few blocks ahead of them. He slows down, but it’s too late, they’ll be there in just moments. His eyes flicker up the façade, looking for his floor. Looking for Spike.

“So that’s what happened to him,” he says when he trusts himself not to shout - not to cry. "They removed his soul."

Angel replies with a single word. “Yes.”

Connor’s hands tighten on the wheel until they hurt. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“He didn’t want me to.” 

Angel’s voice is quiet and calm, tightly controlled, and Connor almost wants to hit him for it. They’re talking about souls and this is not the time for games. Connor grits his teeth and parks the car. Getting out of it, he bangs the door shut behind him. The sound is like a gun shot echoing through the parking level.

“He could have torn my throat out!” he shouts, raking his fingers through his hair. “He could have—”

“You don’t believe that,” Angel interrupts. He walks around the car, careful steps as though he were approaching a wounded animal. “And neither do I. You’re mad because we didn’t tell you.”

“Of course I’m mad!” He turns an incredulous glare at Angel, hands fisting on either side of him. “He’s soulless. He’s like—”

“No. He’s not.” The words are calm still, but they’re now glittering with ice. Angelus’ shadow just fell on them, chilling Connor to the bones. “He never was like… like me. I made him a monster, and he can be that if he wants to.” 

A careful hand brushes against Connor’s arm and he jerks back. 

“But he’d rather be yours than be a monster,” Angel continues. “That’s why he came back.”

He’s observing Connor too closely, eyes dark and piercing, and Connor has to look away. He would like to believe Angel, would like everything to be that simple, and maybe that’s why he allows himself to be guided to the elevator. Maybe that’s why he keeps quiet and tries to remember what Spike looked like, just hours ago, when he reminded Connor he loved him. His image keeps being chased away by Angelus’, though, and that sneering smile, slashed by steel bars. 

When the doors open on Angel’s apartment, he steps out of the elevator but can’t move any further.

“I can’t go.” He takes a shaky breath. “Not now.”

“Connor—”

“Can I sleep on your couch?” he cuts in.

Angel sighs softly and rests a heavy hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Go talk to him at least.”

“I can’t,” Connor says, pulling away. “Don’t make me.”

“You can’t just let him wait for you all night.”

Shaking his head, Connor crosses the room to the windows, getting away from Angel and away from the door that would take him to Spike. He’s not all that surprised to hear Angel following him.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Angel says. “He didn’t choose this. He didn’t want it, and he’s not happy about it.”

Connor turns a hard look to him. There’s something he just doesn’t understand. Weeks ago, before it even started being serious between him and Spike, Angel tried to pull them apart. Now that he has the perfect weapon to do that, why isn’t he using it?

“Why are you defending him?” he asks, crossing his arms and raising his chin to look straight at Angel.

Angel doesn’t even blink. “He didn’t give me a reason not to.”

Frowning, Connor asks, “How do you know he hasn’t switched sides?”

“You ask that, but you don’t even believe it yourself.” Angel clutches his shoulder again, and this time he holds on when Connor tries to pull free. “Do you?”

Connor shakes his head again. It’s true he doesn’t believe it, but maybe he should. “He hasn’t patrolled in days. Maybe—”

“That has nothing to do with—” Angel stops abruptly and pinches his lips tight. Connor could swear he’s trying to decide whether to finish or not, but in the end he doesn’t. “Listen,” he continues after a moment. “They took his soul to get at me. To see how I’d react. How you would react, too. They must have figured out you didn’t know. That’s why Sebassis let it slip tonight. To destabilize you. To pull you away from him. From us. Are you going to let them win? When we’re so close to the end?"

Connor feels confused. Conflicted. Everything he ever learned tells him that vampires are bad, and it took him long enough to understand that a soul could make a difference. It’s like his first days back in this dimension all over again, having to accept that someone with green skin and prominent horns was not necessarily evil. It should be easier this time. It’s someone he loves – loved? – they’re talking about. But the feeling of betrayal complicates everything, tangling the threads of what he knows, what he feels, what he fears and what he hopes until all that’s left is simply a mess.

Giving up, he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

It might be the utter misery that fills his words, or the way he’s shaking beneath Angel’s hand, but something convinces Angel not to push any harder. He squeezes Connor’s shoulder gently.

“All right,” he sighs. “All right. If you don’t want to see him, you don’t have to. And if you don’t feel up to fighting tomorrow night—”

Connor looks up, already shaking his head. “No. That’s different. I can do that. But not… not this.”

It always was easier to fight than to love.

A last squeeze, and Angel’s hand falls from his shoulder. “He loves you,” he murmurs. “You know he does.”

He seems to wait for an answer. Connor doesn’t have one to give. Turning away, he goes to sit on the sofa, shedding his jacket on the way.

“That thing wasn’t designed to be slept on,” Angel says behind him. “Just take my bed. I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

The sound of the front door closing on Angel practically makes Connor jump out of his skin. He doesn’t need to think very hard to know where Angel will sleep tonight. And with whom. He wishes he could convince himself that Angel will just tell Spike not to expect him, and then retreat to the second bedroom. He doesn’t believe it for one second, but even if he did, it wouldn’t comfort him all that much.

He kicks off his shoes and tugs his tie free. For a moment, he twists it absently around his hand before he remembers that Spike picked this for him, Spike tied it for him, fingers so gentle and delicate as they brushed against his neck or tugged the bit of silk tight around it, level with the hickey hidden beneath his collar.

Dropping the tie, he stands and starts pacing through the apartment, absentminded fingers undoing his shirt buttons. He’s trying not to think about what Angel is telling Spike, what he already told him maybe. He’s trying even harder not to imagine what they’ll do when they’re done talking.

He doesn’t need to imagine it. He _knows_. 

He tries to convince himself that he’s the sane one here. His father really should know better than to delude himself. Angel was so _scared_ when they had to bring back Angelus to get information out of him. He caged himself before they even took his soul, like an animal – for all the good that it did in the end. So why did he leave Spike free when the same thing happened to him? Why didn’t he think he needed to protect Connor from Spike when he had been so wary about him meeting Angelus?

Standing at the foot of Angel’s bed, Connor can’t help but wonder how much better exactly Angel knows Spike. Wonder how much time they’ve actually spent together; it has to be a lot more than the few weeks Connor shared with Spike. Wonder how easy – or difficult – it was for Angel to believe Spike wouldn’t hurt anyone now; that he wouldn’t hurt _Connor_. 

He wonders, mostly, if there’s a chance Angel might be right.

He stands in front of that too big, too empty bed for a long time before finally realizing two things within the time of a single heartbeat.

The first is, he _wants_ Angel to be right. Connor has been wrong about so many things in his life, he’s made so many mistakes… He hopes he’s wrong, now; hopes his father is right. Hopes that he's telling the truth, a bit like he did, back on that boat, except that back then Connor couldn't even admit it to himself, let alone believe Angel.

The second thing he realizes is that he’ll never be able to sleep here. Not in this bed, with Angel’s scent all around him. Not alone.

Slow steps take him back to his apartment. He opens the door as quietly as he knows how and slips inside. The feeling of déjà vu is immediate, and like that first time, he leans back against the door and listens.

*

The hallway between Angel’s apartment and his boys’ has never seemed so long. Deep down, anger gnaws at him; he should have known it wasn’t only him that they were trying to provoke by messing with Spike. He should have been ready for it. Still, in retrospect, the outcome of the game Sebassis played tonight could have been a lot worse. Connor’s initial lack of reaction was the best possible answer to what he heard. His reaction after that, on the other hand, was just about on par with Spike’s worst fears, and Angel has no clue how to break out the news to Spike.

He tugs his tie off as he goes, shrugs out of his jacket, and leaves both on an armchair on his way to the bedroom. All the other lights are off, and his stomach twists a little in anticipation of what he’ll find. 

When he reaches the doorway, he freezes, eyes widening a little, the words he had prepared vanishing in a blink. Spike is laid out on the bed, naked, a slight smirk drawn on his lips. His hand stills on his cock when he sees Angel there and he sits up, clearly alarmed.

“Where is he?” Spike asks, worry immediately thick in his voice.

If Angel wasn’t so old – if he didn’t _feel_ so old – he’d been shuffling his feet from nervousness. “He’s not coming.”

Spike blinks, then frowns. Slipping out of bed, he picks up a pair of jeans from the floor and slides them on, wincing when he has to maneuver his cock inside the denim. “What do you mean he’s not coming? Where is he?”

“In my apartment but…” Before Angel can say another word, Spike starts toward the bedroom door. Angel grabs his arm and stops him. “Wait.” He sighs. “He doesn’t want to see you right now.”

As Angel slowly lets go of him, Spike looks up from the hand on his arm to Angel’s face, his frown deepening from confusion to anger. “He doesn’t want to…” A muscle ticks in his cheek and he turns fully to Angel, glaring. “What did you do to him?

“I didn’t—”

Spike moves closer until he’s practically nose to nose with Angel. “Did you fuck him?” he sneers. “Is that it? You couldn’t even wait until he was ready and now you’ve fucked everything up like you always do?”

Spike’s last words don’t make sense, but Angel can’t see past the first asinine question. “Of course I did not fuck him!” His fists clench and it’s all he can do not to smash it in Spike’s face. “God, is that the only thing you think about?”

The look on Spike’s face is pure contempt. “You’re telling me you _don’t_ think about it?”

Angel wishes he could lie, but at this point it’s pretty useless. Spike has been watching him too closely for that, even walking part of that thorny path with him, prodding him on – not that Angel needed any help.

“I’m telling you I didn’t touch him,” he says, gritting his teeth. “And I won’t. Not even if he was ‘ready’.” His eyes narrow, matching Spike’s anger. “And what the hell does that mean anyway?”

Snorting, Spike turns away and goes to the dresser. He picks up a pack of cigarettes, lights one, and huffs blue smoke toward Angel. “You’ve heard him,” he says, now sounding tired. “You know what he wants. Doesn’t mean he’s ready to get it.”

Angel shakes his head. As much as Spike likes to accuse him of having a one-track mind, he seems to have given much more thought to all of this than Angel did – and that’s saying something.

“All I heard,” he says very slowly, “is two people playing a bedroom game.”

“A game. Right.” Sarcasm thickens Spike’s words and darkens his eyes. “Is it just a game too when you and I play it?”

Bristling, Angel jerks his head. “What you and I do has nothing to do with—”

“It has _everything_ to do with it,” Spike cuts in, then scoffs. “And I don’t know why I’m even trying to explain it to you when you wrecked everything.”

He crushes the half smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the dresser before starting for the door again. Like the first time, Angel stops him, but this time his hand is tighter on Spike’s arm, and he doesn’t let go as fast.

“Where are you going?”

Spike rolls his eyes at him. “Where do you think?” He tries to shake off Angel’s hand, without success.

“I told you he doesn’t want to see you.”

“Yeah, and I’ll believe it when he says it to my face.” 

This time, he grabs Angel’s wrist and tugs his hand away. Angel lets go but pins him down with two words.

“He knows.”

He doesn’t add anything more, and simply watches Spike’s face. His emotions have always been so easy to read, too easy, sometimes, but Angel prefers this than not knowing what goes on in his head, as is so often the case with Connor. His features go from confusion to realization to fear – and finally settle on rage, eyes glowing in his suddenly morphing face.

“You told him?” 

Without waiting for Angel to say a word, he lashes out, fist flying toward Angel’s face, and while Angel sees it coming, he can’t completely avoid it. The blow just glances off his cheek.

“You fucking told him?” He’s now shouting, body tensing to attack again. “You said you wouldn’t! You bloody—”

With a roar, he launches himself at Angel. There isn’t much space to fight in the bedroom and it isn’t long before they’re slamming into walls and bumping into the dressers. Angel lets Spike get a few hits in, lets him vent a bit of the anger, but he eventually traps Spike face first against the wall, hands twisted behind him.

“I didn’t tell him,” he says, but Spike is still growling and Angel has to repeat, louder now. “I didn’t tell him, damn it!”

“You said he knows!” 

Spike is still bucking against him, still snarling. Angel pushes away and retreats several steps back. As he does, his eyes catch just a flicker of movement beyond the door, and he knows without needing to look any closer that it’s Connor. It has to be. No one else could be stealthy enough to walk in on them undetected - or almost. 

“Sebassis told him,” he says, quieter now. “Not me.”

Turning to him, Spike glares even harder. “Then you should have explained—”

“I did.”

Spike takes two slow steps closer. Angel observes him warily, ready to stop another attack but unwilling to let it happen if he can avoid it. He doesn’t want to know how Connor would react to that – doesn’t want to know which side he would choose.

“You explained and he doesn’t want to see me,” Spike scoffs. “Why do I have this feeling you didn’t try to explain all that hard.”

“I _did_ ,” Angel says again, his annoyance piercing in his voice. “And right now, I have a hard time remembering why.”

Something flutters on Spike’s face, and while Angel couldn’t put a name on it, it’s not a happy feeling. The demon mask fades away, leaving only pain and bitterness behind. Spike drops his gaze to the floor. “What… what did he say, then?”

Angel shrugs and tries very hard not to look outside the room again. If Spike hasn’t picked up on Connor’s presence yet, Angel doesn’t want to give it away. Let Connor come forward when he’s ready. 

“He’s scared. And angry. But that has less to do with who you are than with him meeting Angelus and seeing for himself what he’s like.”

“Of course.” Spike sounds downright miserable now, like Connor did, back in Angel’s apartment. “It’s always all about you, isn’t it?”

There are enough reproaches in those few words to fill a dozen decades. Spike isn’t only talking about Connor anymore. And it’s not fair, because he knew, when he first went to find Connor, that he was Angel’s. He knew that about Buffy too, and he learned it quickly enough about Drusilla. If Spike didn’t look so… _broken_ , Angel would shove his mistakes in his face and leave him to deal with them. But even when he was still William, Spike never looked so hurt – and even if he didn’t, they’re not alone, and Angel doesn’t care so much to share their past with Connor.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and reaches out to Spike. Fingers curling at the back of his head, he draws him forward until Spike’s face is pressed to his neck. “I really am, my boy.” And for a second, he’s not completely sure which of them he’s talking to.

It’s not a hug, because god knows that’s not part of their repertoire, but it’s close enough to it that he can practically feel the anger draining out of Spike. The pain, on the other hand, is not going anywhere.

“You should sleep,” Angel says after a while. “You’ll talk to him in the morning. Or maybe he’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

Pulling away, Spike shakes his head, mutters, “I can’t.”

“I’ll talk to him with you,” Angel offers. “If you want.”

Another shake of head. “Not that. Sleep.” Spike rakes his fingers through his hair, and when he looks at Angel again, he seems a bit haggard. “I can’t sleep. Haven’t slept since they took it from me. When he’s next to me, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. Afraid if I sleep I’ll wake up and… just do it. Forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t. And when he isn’t there, I’m so fucking scared that they could get to him that—”

The note of hysterical fear rising in his scent is wrenching. Grabbing his face with both hands, Angel kisses him, deep and slow, until Spike’s eyes flutter closed.

“They can’t lay a finger on him,” he whispers as he pulls Spike to the bed, toeing his shoes off on the way. He turns off the light on the night table, then lies down against the pillows, Spike tucked in against his side. “And you’re not going to hurt him,” he adds just as quietly. “I’ve seen you look at him. You never looked at anyone like that.”

Spike’s fingers dig into his shoulder like he’ll never let go. “I love him,” he mutters against Angel’s chest. “So fucking much it hurts.”

Angel sighs softly. “I know,” he says, and keeps the _me too_ to himself.

His hand is running up and down Spike’s back, offering comfort. He has done this so few times, it feels a little eerie. It feels even stranger to do it now, because of that soul, because of Connor, and they are both reasons to push Spike away, shut him out, rather than hold him closer. Angel couldn’t imagine doing this any other way, though, not when he’s not just trying to assuage Spike’s fears, but also Connor’s, beyond that door. 

“And he knows it too,” he continues, “even if he’s too spooked to remember it right now.”

“What if he never remembers?” Spike asks, and for all his century and half of existence, he sounds like a child. He can perform that trick at will, usually accompanied by big eyes and a ‘daddy’ as sweet as sugar on his lips, but this time it’s worry and uncertainty that color his voice and make it drop to a barely there whisper. “You didn’t.”

Angel lets a beat pass, and answers just as quietly. These words are for the boy in his arms, not the one in the other room. “Who said I ever forgot?”

Spike’s fingers tighten on his shoulder, but other than that he doesn’t move, doesn’t reply, and Angel is not surprised. There are words the two of them don’t use, not in relation to each other. Words that could never describe what they have, what they’ve shared, or explain why the souls, in the end, didn’t change it all that much. It doesn’t make those unvoiced words any less true.

“Sleep, now, boy,” he says a little louder, and can feel Spike’s eyelashes caressing his chest when they drop.

Little by little, Spike relaxes against him, and soon Angel is just about certain that Spike is asleep. He doesn’t release his hold on him, nor does he close his eyes. Half his attention is on Spike, the other half on the heartbeat he can hear from the other room now that their voices aren’t covering it anymore. The rhythm is steady, calm – calmer certainly than it was back in his apartment. How much did Connor calm down? Did the shock of learning about Spike’s soul finally pass?

Connor moves so quietly that Angel only has a second’s warning before he appears in the doorway, his silhouette just a shade deeper than the darkness around him. He pauses there, long enough that Angel wonders how much he can see; probably little more than shapes. He wishes he could see Connor’s features, and guess what he thinks. When he takes a slow breath in, Connor’s scent is too jumbled for him to make sense out of it.

After what feels like an eternity, Connor starts moving again, as quietly as before, so slowly it takes him full minutes to reach the bed. His hand comes down first, resting on the mattress behind Spike. The bed only moves when he climbs on, and beneath the sounds of fabric rustling against fabric, Connor’s pants sliding against the sheets, all Angel can hear is the sound of his son’s accelerating heartbeat. His scent is clearer now, full of fear; Angel always hated that smell. He keeps expecting Spike to wake up, turn to Connor, fix whatever was chipped but apparently, thankfully, not broken between them. Spike never stirs however as Connor lies down behind him, his chest pressed to Spike’s back, trapping Angel’s hands between them. 

Connor’s heartbeat returns to a slower rhythm, but his scent remains just as frightened. Freeing one of his hands, Angel reaches back behind Spike’s head and finds Connor’s. He brushes his fingers through his hair, saying through touch what would sound so trite if he said it in words. Everything’s all right. Everything is going to be all right. He can feel Connor relaxing beneath his hand very much like Spike did, moments earlier, until they’re both asleep – both his boys in his arms.

Angel knows he should go, should leave them be, leave them to wake up wrapped around one another so that they can find each other again. But if he moves, he’ll wake them, and that’s the very last thing he wants. Or at least, that’s the excuse he clings to, like he clings to them both. The truth is simpler: he has no delusions about his chances of surviving the next fight, and it’s probably his last chance to be close to them.

He fights sleep back as long as he can, but finally drifts off. He doesn’t dream; what is left to dream of when everything he wants is at his fingertips?

*

As soon as Connor slips into bed behind him, Spike wakes up. His first instinct is to turn around, face Connor, embrace him, but he can’t do that. He just can’t. Not now. If he turns to Connor now, he’ll demand words, explanations, and maybe more than Connor can give. Also, if he turns now, if he shows he’s awake, there’s no doubt in his mind that Angel will leave. 

Maybe it’d be better if he did. Maybe this is not the time for Spike to push things, not now that Connor knows, that he’s upset. 

Then again, if he came back to this bed, maybe he’s not as upset as Spike feared. 

And maybe they don’t have time to waste, not with what’s going to happen just the next night.

Spike keeps his eyes closed, keeps very still between the two of them, feeling Connor’s breath at the back of his neck, feeling the small movement of Angel’s arm and guessing the gentle brush of his fingers in Connor’s hair. Just a few minutes, he thinks. He’ll just keep the status quo a few minutes, and then he’ll see where they are all standing now.

Tired as he is, however, the few minutes turn into hours, and it’s the awareness that the sun is rising that wakes him up. Very slowly, he starts turning between the two of them, both just as tight around him as they were when he fell asleep. At once, Angel starts pulling away, but Spike expected as much and he’s ready. He catches Angel’s hand and holds on to it, stopping him before he can leave the bed. Angel tries to free himself, but Spike refuses to let go. He shifts his hold on Angel’s hand, laying his own on top of it and linking his fingers with Angel’s. It would make it easier for Angel to pull away, but as soon as Spike guides their hands down, as soon as Angel’s fingers and palm brush against Connor’s bare arm, Angel finally stops trying to pull free. 

Spike leads their linked fingers up and down Connor’s arm, light strokes that raise goosebumps on Connor’s skin and make him shift a little without waking him completely. Moving over, and now their hands are caressing down Connor’s back, warm smooth skin all the way down to the waistband of his pants. Angel presses his forehead to the back of Spike’s head, lets out a quiet but shaky breath. His cock is slowly hardening against Spike’s ass. Connor’s is doing the same against his thigh. Another slow stroke, up Connor’s back and ending at the nape of his neck, and a small, mewling sound rises past Connor’s barely parted lips. 

Leaning forward, Spike presses a kiss to those soft, pretty lips, just a caress of his mouth, no more demanding than the ten fingers running down Connor’s back again, slow and smooth. After a few more seconds, Connor’s eyelids flutter open.

“Hey,” he breathes against Spike’s mouth, the sound very quiet.

“Hey you,” Spike replies just as softly. “Heard you didn’t want to see me.”

When Connor shrugs, his cock slides up and presses against Spike’s. His eyelids drop to half mast, clouding his eyes. “I guess… I changed my mind,” he whispers.

Spike pressed a kiss to each eyelid in turn, wishing they would rise again, wishing he could see Connor better. Light is slowly creeping in through the blinds, but it’s not enough yet, and Connor is in his shadow – his, and Angel’s.

Part of him is afraid to know why Connor came back; surely, the fact that he’s there should be enough. But it’s not, and he has to ask, “Care to tell me why?”

This time, when Connor shrugs, there’s nothing accidental about the way their cocks brush together, and the two layers of clothing between them don’t do anything to dampen the sensation.

“I’m not used to sleeping alone anymore,” he says, still as quietly, but there’s something in his voice, something that keeps Spike quiet and waiting for the real reason. It comes after a few seconds of silence, a few slow caresses up and down Connor’s back. “I gave you my blood,” Connor says, breath itching on that last word. “And my throat. You could have killed me. You didn’t.”

Angel’s body turns to stone behind Spike, and his hand pauses for a second, resisting Spike’s guidance. 

_Don’t break it all now,_ Spike wishes he could tell him. They were just a few drops of blood and Spike would never have asked for them first. He’d never hurt Connor – but that’s not true, is it? If it were, Spike wouldn’t have been so damn scared of doing just that ever since he came back.

“You still love me,” Connor whispers against his lips, and when he does, Angel’s hand starts moving again.

It’s not a question, but just the same, it demands an answer. Spike is all too happy to give it. “I do.” 

“But if you don’t have a—”

Spike knew they’d get there, eventually. The question always rises. “It wasn’t the soul that loved you,” he cuts in as gently as he knows how. “Not _just_ the soul. It’s the man. And the demon. Every bit of me.”

He would like to ask if Connor still loves him – if he _can_ love him now – but he’s afraid the answer wouldn’t be what he hopes for, and so he doesn’t ask. If Connor loves him, he will tell him where he’s ready. And if he doesn’t…

“You’re an idiot,” Connor mutters. “You should have told me. Not leave me to find out from them.”

Spike lets out a shaky breath. “Was scared,” he admits. “I thought it’d be too much for you.”

Too much like what happened with Angelus is what he means, but he never got the complete story on what went down last year, so he doesn’t push. For a long moment, the only sound is that of Connor’s breathing, slow and steady like his heartbeat. 

“It _was_ too much,” Connor says at last.

This time, it’s Spike’s body that freezes, his hand that stills. Angel presses more tightly against his back, a wordless reassurance, and he resumes the gentle touch on his own, taking Spike’s hand along with his. They caress up Connor’s back and shoulder, then down his arm and to his hand where it rests on Spike’s chest.

“It was too much,” Connor repeats. His fingers find their way in between Angel’s and Spike’s, and he doesn’t even seem to realize he’s clutching more than one hand. “When he told me, I thought I’d lost you. I thought…” He hesitates, then lets out in a rush of air, “I thought I couldn’t love you anymore. But I can. I do." A shaky breath, and he continues more slowly, "I can’t say it doesn’t matter that you lost your soul. But I don’t _want_ it to matter.”

Spike kisses him again, slow and deep. He leads both hands entwined with his down in between his and Connor’s bodies until their knuckles are brushing against Connor’s straining cock. Connor lets out a quiet groan against his mouth; Angel does the same at the back of his neck. Raising his hand from the top of Angel’s, Spike lays it on Connor’s cheek and waits to see if Connor will realize there’s an extra hand on him before Angel loses his nerve and bolts.

*

Connor’s fears are like butterflies, fluttering inside his chest, inside his mind, a whirlwind of colors that calm down along with the slow strokes of Spike’s thumb on his cheek.

There were no butterflies, on Quor’toth; only fears he couldn’t name. He couldn't tell what scares him now. Not the soul thing, not anymore. Not the coming fight, not yet. So what? He’s in his lover’s arms, he’s being loved, kissed, caressed—

His eyes open abruptly and he jerks – away from the two right hands on him, one thumb caressing his cheek, the other tracing his cock, or maybe closer to them, he’s not even sure. 

His fingers are still entwined with a hand bigger than his. He pulls free, but doesn’t sever the contact, trailing his fingers instead against a thick wrist, then up. He meets the edge of a shirt; Spike’s chest is bare against him. His hand moves up, follows a strong arm that shakes a little beneath his touch, an arm that rests across Spike’s side and continues up, past him, where Connor doesn’t dare to follow. He pulls his hand back, and it returns where it was before, to the hand caressing his cock.

He blinks very fast, trying to clear his vision, but he can’t really see anything, and it’s not because of the lack of light; just a minute ago, he could see Spike’s face just fine on the pillow. His ears are buzzing, and he can’t hear anything either, just the sound of his own heartbeat, but maybe that’s more feeling than sound, and he could swear he can feel each contraction of his too frantic heart as clearly as he can feel the fingers shifting against his cock, cupping it through his clothes.

Another sound breaks through – his name, a whisper on Spike’s tongue. Spike is talking to him, still caressing his face. 

“What do you want, luv?” Spike murmurs. The soft stroking of his thumb on Connor’s cheek is almost hypnotic.

“I don’t…” The breath itches in Connor’s throat. When he starts again, it comes out like a whine. He hates that he sounds like a kid. Hates that he’s as confused as one. “I don’t know.”

The hand cradling his cock starts pulling away. Without thinking, Connor squeezes it, and it stops. When he realizes what he’s doing, he lets go, pulls his hand away, cradles his fingers to his chest as though he had just burned himself. And maybe he did, because he could swear there are flames all around him – around them – around this bed. And if there aren’t, there should be, or so says the voice in his mind that sounds like someone he once called Father; he’s just not sure if it’s Holtz or his confessor. He closes his eyes tight and tries as hard as he can not to let his body shake.

The caresses against his cheeks, his chin, his lips are so delicate, he’s not sure if they are Spike’s fingers touching him, or his mouth. He only figures it out when Spike breathes against his lips, “Trust me.”

The words are as much touch as they are sound, so quiet that Connor isn’t sure if they are a question or a request. 

He replies just as quietly. Even so, he can hear the shame in his voice. He wonders if Spike could see it in his eyes, and clenches his eyelids shut a little more tightly. “I’m scared.”

Like before, the hand on his cock begins to retreat. Someone whimpers – and it’s only when the hand stops again, pressing against his cock as though trying to reassure him, that Connor realizes the small sound came from him.

“You don’t know what you want,” Spike says, and the words could be mocking, they could be chastising, but they’re neither. They’re just flat. Flat and true. “I do.”

And Connor could laugh at that; he could weep. Of course Spike knows what Connor wants. Except… it’s not what he means, is it?

“Any of us might die tomorrow,” Spike continues. Flat. True. “And if I’m going to die for a cause I don’t give a damn about, _this_ is what I want for my last day. Being here. In this bed. With the two of you.”

It’s the first time either of them even acknowledges aloud they’re not alone. Somehow, the hand on Connor’s dick feels heavier, suddenly. As though up to this moment, Connor could have pretended it wasn’t there, not really. But now— 

“But now it’s up to you,” Spike says after a second or two.

Flat and true, and Connor would give anything for Spike not to sound so sure of himself. Anything not to feel like he’s the only one out of his depth, here. Anything to see his father’s face, know what he thinks. But all he can see is Spike, his eyes, dark as night, glimmers of light shining deep.

“It’s all right if you don’t want this.” Spike’s thumb is brushing against Connor’s cheek again, one slow stroke with each word. “And it’s all right if you do. I’ll still love you either way.”

There’s… a noise, as Spike finishes. It’s not a word. Not a groan either. Just a noise. Deep, almost too much so to really hear it, but Connor can _feel_ it with every fiber of his being. He’d almost call it a growl, but it’s much too soft for that.

Spike shudders, a slow ripple of his body that draws Connor closer. “We both will,” he murmurs. “Always love you.”

Connor is glad for the mouth that covers his before he can answer, glad for the reprieve Spike offers him. He thanks him by kissing back as fiercely as Spike is gentle. With each slide of his tongue against Spike’s, each quiet moan he draws from him, Connor tries to find the strength to say no, tries to find a way to say it without hurting anyone, tries to convince himself he wouldn’t regret it.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s wrong. He also knows he has wanted this since he heard Spike call Angel Daddy. Maybe even before, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine it before, and now… now he can’t _not_ imagine it. Now Spike is offering him a way to get it without actually acknowledging he wants it. All he has to do is pretend it’s for Spike. Pretend he’s giving Spike what he wants, and nothing more. 

All he has to do is lie.

The thing is, lying never ended so well for him. Especially lying to Angel.

Pulling away just an inch, he swallows hard. Takes a deep breath. Jumps, and hopes someone will catch him before he reaches the bottom of the cliff.

*

Angel should go. He knows he should. He’s been trying to leave since Connor woke up, but somehow he just can’t manage to move. Twice he tries to pull away, and twice Connor stops him without uttering a word.

But it won’t last. It can’t. Angel is all too aware that Connor is still half-asleep, lulled by Spike’s quiet words, by the hands that caress him like the precious boy he is – and one of those hands is Angel’s but he’s not thinking about that, he’s not thinking about the hard flesh beneath his fingers, and how much warmer it would be if there were no pants in the way.

It can’t last, because Spike is too greedy, always was, and he’s asking for too much. That’s why Connor isn’t answering. That’s why Angel should go. That’s why—

“Yes.” The word comes out in a rush of air. The next ones are breathless, drowned by the suddenly thundering beat of Connor’s heart. “I want this.”

If Angel were alive, his heart would match Connor’s beat for beat.

Spike moves at once, sliding to lie on top of Connor, forcing Angel to withdraw his hand. “Good boy,” he whispers, then kisses Connor, pressing him down into the pillow.

Now that he’s free, now that they’re too busy with each other to even notice whether he’s there or not, Angel could leave. He could be out of the apartment before their mouths even part, before they could even miss him – and why would they when they have each other?

He could leave, _should_ leave, but his strength of will betrays him. He feels drunk, and nevermind that he hasn’t had anything more that a glass of wine hours ago. He’s never seen them kiss, not like this, not so close, always averting his eyes when they knew he was around, too far to truly see them the night he watched them in that alley. He can’t take his eyes off them. Can’t do what he ought to.

All he can do is watch, think that they're beautiful, each in his own right and even more so together, like this, like the world has ceased to exist and all that's left is the two of them. Waves of loneliness hit him with each hint of tongue he can see passing between those two lovely mouths, each lazy flutter of Connor's eyelashes over glassy eyes. Loneliness, and if he's never been so close to them, he's never felt so far either. When Spike draws back just an inch from those pink, pretty lips, Angel can't help but wish—

“Want you to kiss him,” Spike rumbles against Connor’s mouth. “That ok, luv?”

And then, it doesn’t matter that Spike’s words are echoing Angel’s thoughts, doesn’t matter that Connor is nodding, just barely, then turning his face toward Angel while Spike presses a line of kisses down his neck, over his throat, then lower on his chest. It doesn’t matter that, when Connor’s tongue peeks out between his lips to moisten them, Angel’s dick leaps in his pants, hardening a little more if that was possible. 

All that matters is that Angel’s fear, suddenly, runs deeper than _shouldn’t, couldn’t, can’t_. It’s not about what goes on in his head and in his pants anymore. It’s about what goes on in Connor’s heart. What he wants, and what he doesn’t want. What he’s agreeing to because Spike asked, because Spike said words like _die_ , and _love_ , and _my boy_. Because he’s too young to know what true remorse feels like – and if Angel knows neither part of this equation is true, he can lie to himself and pretend he believes his son is still as innocent as the day he was (re)born.

“Spike,” he says, almost growls, and if his voice is so rough it’s not because it’s the first word he has said in hours. It draws Spike’s gaze to him, but also Connor’s. Angel can’t look at his son, so he focuses on Spike and tries not to glare. Tries not to plead either. “I can’t let you force him—”

Because he’s looking so intently at Spike, he doesn’t see Connor move. And then there’s a mouth against his, so warm, so soft, and oh so hesitant. Angel closes his eyes in surprise. When he opens them again, Connor has pulled back already. His face is just inches from Angel’s on the pillow. His eyes are huge, a bit wet. Scared. 

Without thinking, Angel reaches out to caress his cheek, wishing he could chase away his son’s fears, but when has he ever been able to do that? Not since Connor’s first days. His voice drops to a whisper until he’s all but crooning. “You don’t have to do this, baby.”

Connor’s head moves beneath his hand, and Angel pulls away, thinking Connor is trying to shake him off. He soon realizes he’s just shaking his head. “Don’t call me baby.” Connor's protest is a whisper. “I’m your boy. Both of yours.”

That doesn’t address the important part – Connor agreeing to something he doesn’t want - but Spike doesn’t give Angel a chance to say it again.

“Heard him, Daddy?” Spike purrs, and Connor shakes, his eyes half-closing over pupils as dark as night. “He’s ours. You gonna kiss him now or you need an engraved invitation?”

Angel looks at Spike and starts glaring, mouth already open for words that would be less than pleasant. Spike’s games were fine when all he did was drive Angel insane, but this could hurt Connor, this could break and burn every bridge he and Angel have been so painstakingly building toward each other, and Angel can’t allow that. Not for anything. Not even for this.

But the words melt on Angel’s tongue, saliva flooding his mouth. His eyes widen and he fights the urge to blink. He’s not too sure when Spike tugged Connor’s pants off or when he settled down between his legs, but he’s just about certain that the slow stripe Spike paints up Connor’s cock with the broad of his tongue is the first. He waited for Angel to look at him, waited to have an audience, the glint in his eyes says as much, as does the quiet, shuddery moan that rises from Connor’s chest. Angel couldn’t say what’s prettier – the sound Connor makes, or his cock, hard and twitching against Spike’s teasing touch.

Angel has to taste all this prettiness. Taste him. He wants to join Spike, wants to discover for himself what he tasted on Spike’s lips just days ago, but a remnant of fear stops him. All Connor offered him was a kiss. That’s all Angel will offer back. All he dares to offer.

He leans over and presses his closed mouth to Connor’s. His boy hums against his lips, then starts trembling. Angel can imagine all too well what Spike is doing. He rests his hand on Connor’s cheek again, feeling heat when Connor presses into his palm, when he pushes back against his mouth. The next quiet hum turns into a drawn out moan, and Angel’s lips part right along with Connor’s. He takes in that sound of pleasure and makes it his, and if his gratefulness tastes like guilt, no one will know but him.

Connor’s tongue traces his bottom lip and Angel becomes very still. He waits, waits what feels like forever, like Connor’s absence after the portal, after the box, after that blood-drenched blade. When Connor presses in, a touch as light as it is tentative against Angel’s waiting tongue, a shudder runs through Angel’s body. His hand slides higher, fingers threading through Connor’s hair then to the back of his head, pulling him closer still to deepen the kiss.

Far away, or at least it seems very far, Spike hums, and it sounds like both approval and encouragement, just like Spike’s hand on Angel’s cock feels like both things, too. The hand gripping his shoulder, however, is Connor’s. It’s tight even as it kneads lightly, strong though nowhere as bruising as Angel knows it can be, but more than anything, it’s hot. Searing. And suddenly Angel knows exactly how much Hell will burn.

At that moment, he couldn’t care less.

*

Connor’s hips jerk up every few seconds, but Spike couldn’t say if it’s a result of the long stripes he’s licking up the boy’s cock, or an answer to Angel finally stopping the virtuous maiden act that fooled no one and kissing Connor like he means it.

Spike’s eyes never leave them as his mouth trails over Connor’s cock, as he cups Angel’s in his hand. The same twinges of jealousy he felt when Connor said he was both of theirs keep sparking along his spine, demanding that he reclaim his boy’s mouth and attention, reclaim him as _his_ and his only. But he knew Connor was Angel’s the first time he ever heard his name, knew it when he went looking for him, curiosity like a barking hound at his heels, and the need to discover who could have such a hold on Angel.

More important than that knowledge is the fact that he brought them here, to the same bed, because they’re both too scared of losing each other again to ever take that first step alone. Too scared to see what Spike has pieced together from little bits of understanding gathered through the past weeks: if nothing they put each other through broke them apart yet, this certainly won’t. 

All Spike hopes is that he’s not about to lose them both. Seeing how his plans usually turn out, it took a lot of faith to lead them forward – or a lot of stupidity. Good thing he’s never been accused of being smart. 

One last trip up Connor’s dick, the slide of Spike’s tongue against the slit where sweetness is bubbling, and the moan that falls from Connor’s lips, hardly muffled by Angel’s mouth, is sheer music. Pulling away, Spike kneels up. His hands are shaking a little when he tugs Angel’s belt open, then his fly, when he pulls his pants off and sits back on his heels to watch, for just a second – or maybe a tad longer than that. 

Bodies and souls stripped bare, lying next to each other, kissing – and yet still barely daring to touch – they’re at the same time different and strikingly similar. It’s the same ripples going through their bodies, the same need pulsing through their cocks, the same slow blink when they still, break apart, turn to Spike, the same confused look wordlessly asking why he stopped.

Spike smiles to himself, shakes his head, and reaches out for both their cocks. One in each hand, and twin shivers on the first slide of fingers up and down, tight and smooth. It takes a bit of coaxing to get them to move closer to each other, and another barrier falls when Spike presses their cocks together in his now joined hands. This time, it’s moans he draws from them, and again when he leans down and opens his mouth wide. He can’t do much like this; neither of them is small, and together the fit is more awkward than anything else. Still, it’s worth the effort to take them both in his mouth when he glances up and sees two pairs of eyes straining on him, and nevermind the color, it’s the same desire-filled look, the same gleam in darkening irises.

He presses his tongue against them, between them, slurps noisily, his hands covering what his mouth can’t reach. When Angel’s hand settles at the back of his head, heavy and familiar, fingers twisting in his hair, Spike braces himself for the push he knows is coming; instead, Angel tugs him up, until both their cocks slip out of his mouth. Connor makes a tiny sound of loss, the same loss Spike feels, but before either of them can protest, a demand rumbles from deep inside Angel’s chest. 

“Make him feel good.”

If that wasn’t clear enough, he leads Spike’s head to Connor’s cock. Spike follows and takes the tip of his boy’s dick into his mouth, sucking lightly as he slowly works his way down, all the while wanting to call Angel names. _Self-sacrificing bastard_ and _bloody fucking martyr_ come to mind, because honestly, can't Angel accept a gift without immediate claims of unworthiness ruining the party?

“Not just me,” Connor protests in the same tone he protested being called baby. “You—”

Angel stops him with a brush of lips against lips. “I want to watch,” he whispers, rolling onto his side so his body is pressed alongside Connor’s. “I want to see how beautiful you are.”

But he’s not watching when Spike takes Connor deeper into his mouth and presses spit-slick fingers against his balls, then lower still. He’s not watching Connor clinging to the sheets with fisted hands or pushing his hips up in quick, jerky motions, fucking Spike’s mouth the same way Spike’s fingers fuck him. What Angel does instead is kiss Connor again, like a relapsed alcoholic looking for the bottom of that first bottle, both reverent and frantic, grateful and ashamed, unable to stop and come up for air. What he does is drink every little sound that Connor makes; selfish, like always, keeping for himself those gasps and moans Spike is working so hard for. What he does, finally, is touch Connor, trembling fingers caressing his face, his neck, his chest.

Spike keeps his eyes wide open the entire time, has to squint a bit and crane his neck but there’s no way he’s losing even a second of this. He watches that big, heavy hand he knows so well rest over Connor’s heart, and feels the same staccato on his tongue, beneath his hand splayed on Connor’s thigh.

Sliding all the way up, he lets Connor’s cock slip out of his mouth with a wet, obscene noise. Angel looks down at him, no doubt ready to ask why he stopped again, but Spike gives him his filthiest grin as he shuffles out of his pants and kneels up between Connor’s legs.

“Want to see something even prettier?” he asks, an old, dirty whisper that used to curl around fangs dripping red with stolen blood. “Watch his face when I fuck him.” 

Connor is blushing before Spike even pushes in, closing his eyes tight like that will be enough to hide. Angel caresses words against his eyelids – “Open up. Let me see.” – and Connor’s eyes open again even as his body yields to Spike, letting him slide all the way in on the first push.

As Spike starts moving, slow thrusts and lazy circles drawn with his hips, Angel watches Connor’s face, taking in every shift, every flutter of eyelashes, every tremble of those full, pretty lips he’s tracing with his thumb almost absentmindedly. Connor tries to writhe beneath Spike, tries to bear down and push Spike where he wants him most, little gasps giving away his frustration. Spike evades and blocks, his hands on Connor’s hips keeping him from moving too much. He watches Angel watch Connor, watches Connor’s eyes dart between them both, and wonders how long he can drag things out. 

As it turns out, not very long at all.

“Please.”

And Spike will never tire of hearing Connor beg, the word as sweet and sticky as candy.

“Please what, my boy?” he asks, never changing his slow rhythm but pressing in deeper just once.

At the same moment, Angel whispers, “What do you want, baby?”

This time, Connor doesn’t protest the name; Spike wonders if he even heard it. Connor arches his back clear off the bed, his weight resting on his shoulders for a second, head thrown back and eyes closed as he hisses, “Fuck me.”

Spike’s chuckle is dirty enough for sex in back alleys. “Thought I already was, pretty boy. Or isn’t this enough for you?”

He lets go of Connor’s hips, drops down to his elbows to kiss Connor’s chest, then his chin. And when Connor whispers, “Want more,” Spike turns a raised eyebrow to Angel and wonders if he needs to hit him over the head for him to get a clue. 

Apparently, he does. 

“Give him what he wants,” Angel growls, and Spike wants to roll his eyes at him.

“What about what I want?” Spike asks, teeth bared on a smirk. “I said I wanted you both. Still do.” 

Angel growls again, sparks of anger in his eyes, and it’s all Spike can do not to sigh and call him a clueless idiot. He really doesn’t get it, does he? Still thinks they’re playing Spike’s game, and yeah, maybe he dealt the cards, but Connor is placing bets all on his own and Angel used to be better at seeing through bluffing and smokescreens.

At least, at last, whether he understands why or not, Angel does what they both want from him. Sits up, then moves behind Spike, one hand already pressed at the small of his back. Spike lowers himself closer to Connor, trapping the boy’s twitching cock between them and seeking his mouth for a kiss full of promises.

A brush of Angel’s thumb against his hole causes Spike to jerk forward. Connor whimpers in his mouth, and clutches at Spike’s shoulders with both hands as though to draw him closer, deeper. Spike isn’t going anywhere, though, not when Angel is pushing barely wet fingers inside him, offering him the most cursory of preparations. Grabbing Spike’s hip with one hand, he pulls him back until Spike’s cock is about to slip out of Connor and the tip of Angel’s cock is pressing insistently against Spike's opening.

With a snap of his hips, Angel shoves himself in, shoves Spike’s cock back inside Connor, and Spike couldn’t say who, of him or Connor, howls the loudest.

*

Connor can’t catch his breath.

Every time Spike’s cock presses inside him with the weight of two bodies behind it, he gasps, tries to let out the moans that are curling inside his chest, the words that are clawing him from the inside out, but he can’t. Can’t say a word, can’t let out a sound other than this harsh panting that never gives him enough air.

Angel isn’t touching him, not a single finger on him, but he’s fucking him just the same. Connor’s mind can’t wrap around that thought, it just keeps echoing inside his head, as fast as those thrusts that make his cock bounce, make it leak precome all over his stomach, make bright lights spark behind his tightly shut eyelids.

“Look at me, luv.”

The words are quiet, pressed against his lips. Connor drinks them like he would inhale air, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. He can’t do that either. Spike always sees too much in his eyes. Connor doesn’t want to know what he would see now.

“I said, look at me, boy.”

That word again, that so innocent word, except that it’s anything but innocent when Spike says it like that. He’s not sure anymore whether he should loathe it or love it. It’s only his head wondering, however; his entire body reacts, and shakes; his eyes are opening before he even knows it, and he has to blink several times to clear his blurry vision. Spike is resting on his elbows, leaning against Connor’s chest, so low now that Connor’s cock is trapped between them while his legs slip off Spike’s shoulders.

Spike’s eyes are pure gold when he peers into Connor’s, but the rest of his face remains human. “Is this what you wanted, luv?” he whispers.

There’s a hand on Spike’s shoulder, large, strong, holding tight. Connor wishes it were on him. He wishes, also, that he dared ask for it. One more thing he can’t do, too caught up in what’s happening to request more. This is already so much. So much more than he should have, should want, but he did want it, and he does have it, and he still can’t catch his breath, still feels like his chest is much too small for how big his heart is growing.

He nods in reply to Spike’s question. Nods again when Angel leans over Spike’s shoulder and seeks an answer too, eyes both worried and wild. A jolt of electricity races through Connor, dances along his spine and curls around his balls. He gasps again, maybe even moans, the sound tiny and immediately lost in the slap of flesh on flesh on flesh, the grunts and groans coming from the men above him.

His eyes are prickling – because he’s lying, because each of Angel’s thrusts pushes Spike’s cock against his prostate, because he’s so close to getting what he wanted and yet so far still, Connor couldn’t say. He tightens his hands on Spike’s hips so he won’t press them to his own face and hide; so he won’t reach for Angel either and risk… Risk what? Risk disrupting his rhythm, fast and strong and unrelenting, and if Connor had ever thought about his father in bed (but he didn’t, no, of course not, he’s a good, good boy) this is what he’d have imagined. Risk pulling him back to reality, and Connor can’t even imagine what he would do, how he would feel if Angel stopped now; if he rejected him. Surely something inside him would break forever.

He closes his eyes again, and almost at once, Spike lays his hands on either side of Connor’s face, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs, the gesture utterly delicate and in complete contrast to the unrelenting pounding of his cock inside Connor, of his hand stripping Connor’s cock and pushing him just a little faster toward his release.

_Oh god…I >_

_He blinks again, and watches Spike above him, a little higher than a moment ago. Both his hands are still framing Connor’s face. So the hand pumping Connor’s dick—_

_Connor comes with a wail, his back arching clean off the bed as his come splatters over Spike’s chest and his own. His nails dig in so hard into Spike’s hips that the smell of blood rises between them, mixing with the smell of Connor’s come. For a few seconds, Spike stills inside him, his balls pressed tight to Connor’s ass. Angel is immobile behind him too, but his hand is still moving on Connor’s cock, slower now, coaxing the last of his pleasure out of him. Connor’s eyelids have dropped to half mast, heavy with languor and the come he spilled, but he can see both of them above him, both of them watching him like he’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen in all their years. It’s not the same love in their eyes, but it’s still love. For him._

_And he knew they both loved him before, so why does he feel so surprised, so warm – so happy?_

_For the first time in what feels like years, Connor takes a deep breath, and his heart starts calming down. He smiles up at them, and it’s like a signal. Angel finally lets go of his cock. He pushes Spike down, flat against Connor’s chest, and he might be too heavy, but he’s not, not now that it’s so easy to breathe. Connor wraps his arms around Spike’s torso and holds him even tighter. He turns his head towards Spike’s on the pillow and kisses him lightly. When Angel starts thrusting again, it’s like a new dance is beginning._

_Trapped under Spike’s weight, Connor’s cock tries to twitch back to life, but it’s too soon. The rest of his body doesn’t know whether to hum in contentment or cry out that it’s too much. Connor does neither, and just lets his hands trail over the smooth skin of Spike’s back and on Angel’s chest, too, when he leans close enough. His legs have found their way to Angel’s hips and he tries to draw him closer, but Angel won’t be swayed, the tight focus in his eyes says as much. He keeps driving himself inside Spike, keeps pushing Spike’s cock inside Connor, and Connor only wants him, wants them, to find the same thing they offered him, even if he’s not quite sure what it’s called. Surely it was more than pleasure. Surely they deserve to find it too._

_An image flashes through his mind, marked throats still red with blood. That’s who they are, even if neither of them is in game face now. Because of him, he realizes, his mind clearer than it has ever been. But they don’t need to hide from him, not ever._

_“Daddy…”_

_It’s the first word he has said since they started. He’s not sure who he’s talking to; not sure it matters either._

_Above him – above them – Angel misses a beat, mouth already open to ask—_

_“What do you want, luv?” Spike whispers against his cheek. “You can tell us.”_

_Connor licks his lips; looks at Spike, then at Angel again. “Want to see you bite him.”_

_Neither of them hesitates. At once, Spike rises to his knees, helped by Angel’s arms around him. His cock slips out of Connor, and Connor bites back a moan at the loss. Angel is still moving, but shallow thrusts now. Connor watches his hand curl over Spike’s dick, watches his face over Spike’s shoulder, watches him change. Watches him bite._

_Hands fisted in the sheets and eyes open very wide so he won’t miss a thing, Connor bites down on his bottom lip, drawing his own blood like Angel draws Spike’s._

_Spike comes, head thrown back and mouth open on a howl, strands of come furiously stripped from him by the same hand that still glistens with Connor’s come. When Angel lets go of him, hands and mouth, Spike falls forward, barely catching himself before he hits Connor. Angel is fucking him again, harder still, and there’s a look of desperation on his face like he wants to come so badly but can’t. Connor draws Spike down, kisses the still bloody marks on his neck, holds him tight with one arm even as he reaches for Angel’s with the other. Angel comes easily enough, pressing tight to Spike’s back, and all Connor needs to do is raise his head a bit to find his father’s mouth._

_He kisses him with lips still wet with blood, can feel him gasp, can feel the unrestrained shudders of his body rocking into Spike’s as he finally lets go._

_Spike’s body slips down against Connor’s right side until he’s half on, half off him. Angel collapses against Connor’s left side, furious breath brushing against his neck like caresses._

_They’re heavy on top of him, but not smothering. Connor never wants them to leave._

__

*

It takes a while, after Angel comes, before the blank canvas of his mind starts imprinting again.

Physical sensations come through first; warmth against his side where he's resting against Connor. Smoothness beneath his hand where it lays on Spike’s back.

Next are sounds; Connor’s heartbeat, and his breathing, both slowly calming down until they’re strong and even.

Scents, and Angel can’t sort them out. His scent, Spike’s and Connor’s are mixed so closely, they might as well be the same. Come, blood and contentment, those are smells Angel knows quite well. He tries to untangle the threads, tries to look for other scents, just as well known but unwanted – fear, guilt, discomfort. The only hints he picks up are coming from himself.

What is Connor going to say, now? What will he think? Spike maneuvered him into accepting this, and maybe Connor will be mad at him, maybe he’ll reproach him, blame his lack of soul. Angel doesn’t have that excuse. Worse, Angel is his father. He should have protected Connor. Not taken advantage of a moment of confusion.

Angel can’t bear the thought of seeing disgust in Connor’s eyes, or hate. Not again. Not after everything he gave up to erase them. He keeps his eyes tightly shut until he turns his head away and starts moving back. He sits up on the edge of the bed, wanting nothing more than to run and hide. Before he can stand, a hand clasps his shoulder, the touch tentative at first, then stronger when the hand squeezes gently. A hand so warm Angel can feel its heat all the way down to his soul. 

“You're… you're leaving?” Connor asks, his voice tiny and hesitant.

Very slowly, Angel turns back to him. Connor sat up, and he’s now propped up against Spike’s chest, with Spike’s arm curled lazily at his waist. Spike’s expression is easy enough to decipher - _don’t be an idiot now_ \- but it’s Connor’s face Angel examines closely. The same fear Angel failed to find moments ago is now rising in Connor’s eyes. Angel’s stomach twists painfully.

He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to beg for Connor’s forgiveness, but words seem entirely too inadequate, and he can’t manage to make a single sound.

“Are we… are we ok?” Connor asks quietly, hesitating again, like he’s the guilty one here.

Angel would like to comfort him, tell him it’s not his fault, none of it was, but the words still won’t come out. He leans down to kiss Connor’s forehead, but as he’s about to touch him, Connor tilts his head up, offering Angel his lips instead. They’re still covered in blood. Spike’s blood, drawn by Angel’s fangs, and Connor’s own, mixed together. Blood now dried to a dark red. All Angel needs to do is squint a little, and rather than blood he’ll see lipstick, red and luscious, smeared by a too demanding kiss. _His_ kiss.

A memory of Darla flashes through Angel’s mind, languid and grinning through her fangs, well fed and well fucked. She seems to be mocking him, and he pushes away the image before she can say a word – before she can ask how else he will damn his soul next: he let their son be stolen when he was an infant, slashed his throat when he became a man, and today, on the edge of giving him his life back, he—

As though sensing the turn Angel’s thoughts are taking, Connor presses harder against his still closed mouth, brings him back to the here and now.

When Connor kissed him moments ago, that touch, that taste were enough to push Angel over the edge of pleasure. Now, at the same touch, he can barely prevent a moan from rising to his lips. But try as he may, he can’t stop thinking about flicking his tongue against Connor’s lips, about picking up even just a little more of that forbidden taste.

Angel has crossed so many lines already. What’s one more?

And that, he thinks, his throat tightening, is why he needs to go. _Now._

Lifting his mouth from Connor’s lips, he caresses his hair. Fine as a baby’s – or is that just his memory playing tricks on him?

“I love you, son,” he murmurs. “I hope you’ll never forget that.”

Connor’s half smile falters, then fades away. “What—” 

“I’ve got to go,” Angel cuts in, forcing himself to move away from Connor, then stands. He starts picking up his clothes. “Big fight tonight. I need to get ready.”

“It’s still hours away,” Spike drawls behind him, the first words he offered Angel since this all started. “You should rest before that.” 

He says ‘rest’, but Angel knows what he really means is, ‘stay’. Stay in bed. With them. 

If he did, Angel is sure there wouldn’t be much rest to be found, not for any of them. 

“I can’t,” he says, gritting his teeth. It ought to be, _I shouldn’t_. “I’ve got things to do.” And that’s in place of, _How could you let this happen?_. 

And truly, he doesn’t get it. Spike never was too fond of sharing, not when he had a choice in the matter, so why? Why Connor, of all people? Why now, so close to the end?

He gets dressed without looking back at the bed, hands shaking so hard that he doesn’t even try to button his pants or shirt. He can feel their eyes on him, can smell rising anger coming from Spike, threads of confusion weaving in Connor’s scent. 

“Dad?”

There’s a knife on the floor; the same knife Angel used a year ago, the knife Connor took from him just days earlier. It looks like it tumbled off the dresser when Angel and Spike fought. It feels like it was ages ago. Angel picks it up. In his mind, the blade is forever stained.

“Dad?” Connor repeats behind him, but Angel still doesn’t look back. Doesn’t _dare_ to look back. “We’ll see you at the meeting point tonight.”

It’s not a question, but Connor still sounds like he’s expecting an answer. Angel nods; it’s easier than to lie with words. “Be careful,” he murmurs, because saying goodbye would be giving himself away, and finally leaves the room. 

He wishes he could stay.

He wishes he hadn’t come here. 

He wishes he could hold Connor again. Kiss him again. 

He wishes he hadn’t done any of it. 

He wishes he didn’t regret it. 

He wishes he wasn’t lying to himself when he pretends he regrets it. 

There is one thing that makes no doubt in his mind, and it’s a relief to be able to cling to that when the world still feels like it’s shaking under him. There’s a storm coming, a storm he raised himself, and even if he’s not going to survive it, Angel still has to prepare. He still has to make sure that Connor will survive.

*

As Spike watches Angel walk away, as he listens to the front door close on him until he and Connor are alone again, the filthiest insults he knows come to mind. The next time he and Angel are alone, he will call the damn bastard every name he can think of, and he might end up putting his fist in the idiot’s face too. Or maybe he’ll start with that, get it out of the way, and then tell him what he thinks of his disappearing act.

He has things to do? Really? Like he hasn’t been preparing this for days, dotted i’s and crossed t’s, every last piece of the puzzle in place and his orders passed on to his soldiers already? He’s a lying son of a bitch, that’s what he is. He should have stayed with them, not run off like a shamed-face john, a handful of bills on the dresser and his cock still twitching from coming so hard. He played the guilt game often enough with Spike that it wouldn’t have mattered if it had only been the two of them, but it’s not, and if the fucking bastard hurts Connor, if his guilt makes Connor think he has anything to be ashamed about…

Trying to calm his thoughts, Spike shifts against Connor. The boy is still looking at the door, like he expects Angel to return. Resting his palm on Connor’s cheek, Spike makes him turn to him, thumb stroking gently against his cheekbone. Connor blinks twice, his vision adjusting until he’s looking straight at Spike. His lips are still stained by blood, and in a moment, Spike will lick them clean for him, will kiss him nice and slow. But before that, he needs to ask, “You ok, luv?”

Connor turns into his embrace, facing him fully, and he’s in Spike’s lap now, arms and legs around him, eyes bright and clear as they meet Spike’s.

“More than ok,” he whispers, a tiny smile pulling at his lips. And as quiet as his voice is, Spike can still hear the bit of awe hiding in his words when he says, “He loves me.”

Spike’s bark of laughter is more surprise than amusement. “Of course he loves you,” he says, shaking his head incredulously. “You knew it before this.”

Connor shrugs, ducking his head. His arms tighten around Spike, pulling him close until his face is pressed to Spike’s shoulder. “I did,” he says, still whispering. “I really did. But at the same time… I don’t know. Now it’s… different.”

Fingers tangled in Connor’s hair at the back of his head, Spike pulls lightly, until Connor follows and Spike can see his face again. It all went faster than Spike had expected, faster than he had planned, and even as he pushed them both forward Spike wasn’t sure how they’d react afterwards. Angel running away, in retrospect, is nothing but par for the course. But he still can’t get a good read on Connor, on what he thinks, how he feels. At least he doesn't seem to regret anything.

Pressing his mouth to Connor’s, Spike offers a light kiss, tiny flicks of his tongue lapping at dried blood. He pulls back after a few seconds and asks, “Different how?”

Connor’s tongue follows the wet path left by Spike’s on his lips before he answers. “Because he wanted this too,” he says, a little louder now as though more sure of himself, even if he immediately adds, eyes pleading for the right answer, “Didn’t he?” 

Spike smoothes his hand over Connor’s cheek and tries to think fast. How much can he tell, now? Hours ago, he would have danced around the topic for days rather than confess Angel’s secrets in his place. Now though, a lot has changed.

“What makes you think he did, luv?” he asks, still not sure what to answer.

“You knew I wanted this,” Connor says slowly. 

Spike would expect crimson to spread through his cheeks at that, but there’s no shame in his voice, no guilt in his scent; unlike his father, he still doesn’t regret what happened, and Spike kisses him just for that.

“Did you know he wanted it too?” Connor continues after that brief kiss. “Is that why you said that’s what _you_ wanted? To give it to us?”

Sometimes, Spike thinks the boy is much too smart for his own good.

“Who says I didn’t want it too?” Spike asks, a smirk painted on his lips. “Two pretty men in my bed, the chance was too good to pass.”

Connor shakes his head, his eyes seeing right through Spike. He doesn’t even bother to call him on what’s not really a lie, but not the entire truth either. “How did you know he wanted it?” he insists. “How long have you known?”

Sighing, Spike drops his hand from Connor’s face, caresses his shoulder and arm instead, eyes following where his fingers touch so he won’t have to meet Connor’s eyes. “That’s how I even knew you existed,” he murmurs. “He got drunk. Called me his son. Called me by your name while I was sucking his dick, and when he fucked me too. Said he loved me, but that wasn’t me he was talking to and I knew that. So after we were done, I got curious.”

He can practically hear the wheels turn in Connor’s head, line up until everything clicks into place. Connor’s hands clench on his back, nails digging in deep like he needs to anchor himself to something solid.

“Is that…” He licks his lips again. “Is that why you came to find me?”

Meeting his eyes again, Spike nods. “I told you the first time we talked. You asked why I was there—”

“And you said Angel let my name slip,” Connor finishes for him. “But you never said he let it slip when you two were in bed.”

The lightness that brightened Connor’s face just moments ago is slowly fading, and Spike would do anything to bring it back – even offer a lame joke.

“We weren’t actually in bed,” he says, tongue in cheek, but Connor doesn’t pick up on it. Instead, he asks, and now there’s enough hesitation in his voice and in his eyes for Spike to hear and see, “Did you know this would happen? Did you come to find me to bring me to his bed?”

“No!” Spike’s hands are on Connor’s face again, holding tight so that he can peer into Connor’s darkening eyes and will him to believe. “Connor, luv, _no_. I first came because I was curious. I came back because I liked you. But I didn’t know it’d end up like this. Him playing games with me was one thing, but at the time I was sure he’d never touch you. And I never imagined you’d want it either, not until…”

Connor’s face closes right along with his eyes, every last bit of expression and color draining from it. Spike bites his tongue to stop himself from talking. Angel running away didn’t make Connor regret what happened like Spike feared, but he might have just done that himself with a few too many words.

 _Fuck_.

*

When Angel leaves, Connor manages not to be too disappointed. There’s still a lot about his father he doesn’t understand, but there’s one thing he knows: Angel can’t allow himself to be too happy. And while Connor doesn’t believe for a minute that Angel really still has things to prepare before the fight, he doesn’t begrudge him the lie. If Angel needs to pull away to keep his soul, that’s all right.

But it’s only moments before he realizes there’s another possibility. A much more likely possibility.

“I was sure he’d never touch you,” Spike says, and suddenly everything is clearer.

This is why Angel called Spike by Connor’s name, why they played that game. Because Angel never planned to actually do this. Because he knew better than to do this, knew better than to ask for it.

“And I never imagined you’d want it either,” Spike continues, and probably doesn’t even realize he’s pushing the nail in so deep there won’t be enough left for Connor to even hang bits of pretend or denial like pretty paintings over that cracked patch of his mind.

Angel knew where games stopped and reality started. He’d never have blurred the lines.

But Connor twisted these same lines, tangled them until they were meaningless. He asked for things, and because Spike loves him, because Angel loves him just as much, maybe more, neither of them dared to say no.

“Connor… look at me, luv.”

Connor blinks, but his vision is still blurred. _Look at me_ , that’s what Spike said earlier, when he was balls deep inside Connor, when Angel was inside him, fucking them both.

Like Connor asked.

 _He’d never touch you_. No, he wouldn’t have. Not unless Connor asked. And Connor did.

Feeling lightheaded and vaguely nauseous, Connor tries to pull away, untangle himself from Spike, but Spike pushes him back into the mattress, trapping him beneath his body, and never pulls away even when Connor pushes at him – scratches him – hits him.

“If you don’t calm down now, boy,” Spike growls, “I’m going to take you over my knee and teach you to behave.”

Connor stops fighting, less a result of that threat than a reaction to that word, again. He starts shaking his head, but Spike stops him, his hands tight on either side of Connor’s face.

“What have I done?” Connor whimpers, blinking fast until his vision finally clears and he can see Spike above him. “How could I—”

Spike presses his mouth to Connor's, hard enough to hurt. When he pulls away, his eyes are blazing.

“Not you,” he says very low. “Us. Three of us in this bed. So don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for—”

“And who else should I blame?” Connor cuts in, slicing through Spike’s words like his nails are slicing through Spike’s skin where he holds his biceps. “I’m the one who wanted this. Who asked for it.”

Spike sighs, deep and heavy. “You just said yourself you thought Angel wanted it.”

“And _you_ said he’d never have…” Connor can’t even finish. Can’t put in words what just moments ago made him feel so warm, so loved. Now, it just tears his mind apart with the fear that he went too far this time. He tried to kill his father, he put him in a box, stole the woman he loved from him, allied with his enemy, but now… “I made him do this. I forced him—”

“Connor, luv… That’s not what I meant.”

Connor closes his eyes, shakes his head. “I was wrong. So very wrong. I shouldn’t have wanted this. Shouldn’t have made him—”

Another kiss swallows his words, and this time there are fangs pressing against his lips, a growl sliding into his mouth, demanding his attention. Connor shivers and opens his eyes, stares straight up at a snarling demon - but the mask doesn't begin to hide his concern, or his love.

“Now listen,” Spike snaps. “There is nothing that you or I could force Angel to do if he didn’t want to. _Nothing_.” 

The game face melt away, right along the anger in his eyes. Rolling onto his side, Spike pulls Connor to face him. Connor is still shaking when Spike kisses his cheeks, when he presses salty lips to his mouth, but his racing heart slowly settles down.

“Even if he wanted it,” Connor whispers, “he was going to leave. And I made him stay. I made him… I shouldn’t have—”

One more kiss, more gentle this time. “Shouldn’t doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Spike says. “What matters is what you need. And you needed this. Both of you.” He’s stroking Connor’s cheek again, slow and soft, his words coming out to the same rhythm. “You and Angel, you’ve hurt each other in ways that go beyond hate and love. You two can say sorry and apologize and forgive each other until you both run out of breath, and it still wouldn’t be enough. You’d still wonder if he really forgave you, completely, no shard of anger or resentment left inside his heart. If he really loved you with every little bit of that bloody soul of his. And he’d wonder the exact same thing. But now…”

Sliding closer, Spike presses his forehead to Connor’s and whispers, “What’s the first thing you said after he left? You said he loves you. Before, you _thought_ you knew it. Now you know it in your flesh—” His hand slides off Connor’s cheek and presses to his chest. “—and in your heart.” Like an afterthought, he adds, “And so does he.”

Spike’s words are appealing; they always are. He always seem to know exactly what to say, and sometimes Connor wonders if he means it all, or if it’s all only a game for him.

If it was a game now, Connor doesn’t know what he would do. Doesn’t know how he could move on. So he clings to the words like he clings to Spike, and hopes it’s not all pretty lies and chimaeras. 

“You really think he does?” he asks, his voice so pleading he almost doesn’t recognize it. He remembers, suddenly, how fast Angel left; how he wouldn’t look back.

“I really think he does, luv.” He draws Connor closer, holding him in a tight hug. 

Connor holds back just as tightly and closes his eyes. The fears and a bit of guilt are still there, they’ll be there until he can talk to Angel again, make sure he’s ok with what happened, but Spike is at least right about one thing – Connor needed this, that closeness, and now that he’s had it, something in his heart, in his head, in the middle of all these memories he’s still sorting through, doesn’t seem so broken anymore. He whispers a thank you he’s not sure is loud enough for Spike to hear, and lets sleep claim him for now.

*

Holding the letter in front of him, Angel reads it over for the second time, his frown deepening with each line. He is only halfway through when he shakes his head once and reaches for the box of matches on the desk. The shredder is within arm’s reach, but he doesn’t trust that thing. This is Wolfram & Hart – not for much longer if he has his way, but still. His private correspondence concerns no one but him – and Connor.

Or at least, it will if he ever manages to get the words right.

He lights up a match and brings it to the edge of the paper, watching flames consume words that are anything but adequate. Ashes are falling down onto his desk, joining ashes from his previous three attempts at saying… he’s not even sure what he’s trying to say anymore. What he _can_ say. 

He lets the flames eat the letter, let them come closer and closer to his fingers, and as he feel the heat approaching, he has a sense memory of doing this exact same thing… was it just days ago?

It was a drawing of Connor then, an image of his son in all his perfection. An image that shouldn’t have touched Angel’s mind, like he shouldn’t have touched his son. But the image is still there, even clearer now that Angel doesn’t have to imagine and can just remember. As for the rest…

The fire reaches his fingers, the pain sharp but nowhere near what he deserves. He holds on to the piece of paper as long as he can bear before finally dropping it. It’s charred, the flames dead from lack of fuel, before it even reaches the desk.

Sweeping the ashes off his desk with his arm, Angel pulls out a new piece of paper. Picks up his pen. And starts over.

The first line is easy enough. _My dearest Connor_. It feels formal, and old fashioned, and absolutely insufficient at expressing all that Angel feels – but then, that’s what the rest of the letter is about.

The first paragraph is the same, almost word for word, as what Angel wrote before. An explanation of what Angel has done, what will be happening at the moment Connor reads the letter, what will hopefully happen after that. He doesn’t have to think about any of this, because that’s the one thing he has done in the past year he feels really good about, the one thing he knows he won’t regret because it was the _right_ thing to do.

The pen presses down for a period, then lifts off the paper. Angel looks up at the knife resting in front of him above the letter. That, too, was the right thing to do, and Connor forgave him for it; Angel hopes he’ll forgive him about this too. He has no doubt that Connor will be mad at first, that’s why he asked for Wesley’s help, but eventually he’ll understand why, understand that all Angel wanted – all he _ever_ wanted – was his well-being. And then, maybe, he’ll forgive him again.

Angel’s gaze returns to the paper, and he frowns at it. If he could just cut his chest open and offer his heart for Connor to examine, it wouldn’t be as painful as this.

 _And now I want to apologize_ , he writes, each letter slow to appear under the point of his pen. Want to, when in the other letter he said need. Angel won’t be there to discuss with Connor the necessity of apologies, but he wouldn’t care to argue the point in any case.

_I should not have touched you like I did last night, and I apologize for it._

His hand is shaking a little now, and it shows in the slight irregularities of his handwriting. In his first attempts, he couldn’t make himself write this, put what happened into words, but he has to. It’s real. It happened. And pretending that it’s not, that it didn’t, wouldn’t be fair, nor would it help anything.

_All I can say to explain myself is this: ever since you walked back_

Angel pauses there, wondering how to continue. He was about to write, _through that portal_ , but he doesn’t want Connor to look back on all that time and find something in the way Angel looked at him then that was anything other than fatherly. They might not be good memories, but just the same, Angel doesn’t want them tainted by something that didn’t exist.

 _into my office_ , he continues haltingly, _ever since I heard you call others your family_

Ever since I heard you call him daddy, his mind tries to interject, but he doesn’t listen and keeps on. He would like to blame it all on Spike, he has done as much many times in the past, but this time the blame is his.

_I’ve been trying to reconcile Connor Reilly and my son in my mind, and it has proved more difficult than I expected. I gave you away willingly, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt._

His hand tightens on the pen and he hesitates again. If he were telling this to Connor, face to face, he’d never use these words. He feels like a right idiot thinking them, let alone putting them on paper. But it’s the only way he can find to say it. Besides, if Connor sticks with Spike after tonight, he’ll have to get used to random bouts of bad poetry filtering through. 

_Losing you again broke my heart. I tried to fix it, but the pieces got mixed up. That’s the only way I can explain thinking, even for a moment, that touching you like this was acceptable. I forgot how upset you were. How convincing Spike can be when he wants something. Mostly though, I forgot what it means to be your father, and I’ll always regret I did._

Angel wishes he could ask for forgiveness, but he hasn’t done anything to deserve it. He finishes with the same words he gave Connor earlier. _Never forget I love you_ and signs with his name before changing his mind and adding, just above it, _your father_. He’s not sure which of them needs reminding, but it feels good – it feels right – to write it one last time.

He’s putting the pen down when two knocks on the door precede Wesley’s entrance.

“Did you need me for anything?” Wes asks as he comes forward. “I was about to head out for the day.”

It’s still early – early enough that Angel could go back upstairs, go back to them, but he’s not thinking about that – and yet the announcement doesn’t surprise Angel. He told all of them to enjoy their day, made it clear they understood it might be their last. Wesley refused, and even now Angel knows he’s not heading out to relax. He has one last task – or maybe even just one more on top of that.

There’s an envelope waiting on Angel’s right, Connor’s name already inscribed on it. He folds the letter without reading it over and slips it in the envelope. He could write and rewrite it a hundred times, it still wouldn’t be good enough in the end. He closes the envelope, hands it out to Wesley.

“Since you’re going out, do you mind putting that in the mail for me?”

Wesley looks down and the envelope in his hands, at the single word written on it, then slides it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Of course.”

More platitudes, and Wesley heads out. Angel watches him go, and wonders whether he’ll ever see him again. If he does, it’ll only be so they can die together.

There are still hours to wait before the fight. Angel picks up the knife from his desk, turns the blade between his fingers. It all started with this bit of metal, turned red with Connor’s blood. Tonight, Angel intends to turn it red again, and use it to sign his resignation as CEO of Wolfram & Hart. Full circle, or almost – Connor won’t be there this time.

*

Lazy day spent in bed with a warm boy. Deep kisses. Deep thrusts. Slow and languid. Quiet words of love. 

_Remember when_ games, and they’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but it feels like a lot more than that. Spike wonders if Connor’s memories, the fake ones, feel like this, like an entire lifetime has been spilled into his mind, his heart, staining everything like wine, and whatever happens next, the color will never be the same again. He presses a kiss to Connor’s temple, and doesn’t ask.

Other word games, too, and these ones aren’t about what they’ve done so far; instead, they are about what they’ll do, _after_. They could travel. Or just stay in and fuck for a week or two. They could visit the Reillys, see if it goes any better this time around. Connor hasn’t decided yet if he’ll go and finish his internship. He doesn’t know either if he’ll go back to Stanford in the fall. There’s something in his eyes when he shrugs, a glint that says, “It’ll depend”. 

Spike can imagine what it all depends on, even if he doesn’t say Angel’s name again. Connor doesn’t either. All things considered, he took all of this better than Spike expected; didn’t freak out as much as he feared, either. It’s still a surprise, especially seeing how Angel ran off, and how Spike made a right mess of things. He managed to fix it, though, and if the smell of tears lingers on Connor’s skin, his eyes aren’t red anymore. They’re limpid, as bright as his smile when he kisses Spike again, lips sweet as sugar, still indented from where he bit down before.

“I’m going to grab something to eat. Want me to warm you some blood?”

Spike shakes his head. “I’ll come with you.”

And it’s worth getting out of bed, if for nothing else than that slightly brighter smile. He follows Connor’s naked ass to the kitchen, and there’s a whole story on the boy’s skin. Already fading bruises on his hips where Spike clutched hard, dried come which is not all his, a hickey on his neck… Claimed, all over, and still Spike doubts he’s the one who left a deeper mark on this boy today.

Angel is a _fucking_ idiot. 

Still, gift horses and all that, Spike doesn’t mind so much, not when it means he gets more time to spend with Connor.

He watches him prepare a sandwich, watches him eat, and drinks deep from his mug so he won’t be tempted to talk too much. He hasn’t said a word that isn’t true, and still, he feels like he’s lying to Connor, and he hates it. Hates that Connor thinks he knows what will happen tonight, and when he figures it out, when he realizes that Spike knew and didn’t tell him…

“Spike? You ok?”

Blinking, Spike smiles automatically. “I’m fine.”

Connor comes to him, pulls the mug out of his hand and places it on the counter behind him. Sliding closer, he presses his forehead to Spike's, arms resting loosely on his shoulders.

“I mean…” Connor’s voice drops to a whisper. “Are you ok with… with what happened?”

Spike can’t help but frown at that. He’s not too sure what Connor is getting to. “I asked for it, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but…” Gray clouds drift trough Connor’s eyes. “I don’t know. You two have a history, I guess, and—”

A finger pressed to his lips stops him. Spike shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Just tell me this. Are you still my boy?”

Connor’s blossoming smile, the color rising in his cheeks, the flames in his eyes – his cock hardening against Spike’s – all answer before he does. “Always.”

Spike kisses him, hard and fast. “That’s all that matters to me. Shower?”

Another kiss, and they head to the bathroom together. One last time, like the very first, with their cocks pressed together in their hands, and kisses that say more than words ever could. Next they get dressed, without a word until Connor’s muttered curse.

“What’s wrong?” Spike asks at once.

“Did you see my knife? It was on the dresser and now it’s gone.”

“No, I didn’t—” An images flashes through Spike’s mind; he didn’t actually _see_ what it was that Angel picked up from the floor, but he’d bet that was it. “Didn’t see it,” he finishes, and that’s not really a lie. “I thought you were taking a sword anyway?”

“Yeah, but…” Connor shrugs, grimaces. “We’re not coming back here and I wanted to keep it. Aren’t you taking anything?”

Spike looks around the room, thinks of the rest of the apartment, and finally nods. “I am taking something.” A kiss and a grope, and Connor laughs when he realizes what it is that Spike will keep from this adventure in corporate land.

Half an hour later, they’re down in the garage, and Spike watches Connor leave. His assignment will take him farther than the rest of them, and even in Sharona, it’ll take him a bit of time to get there. Spike on the other hand still has some time to kill, and the sun has not set yet, so he returns upstairs. He tries to find Angel, but he’s not in his office, and the elevator seems to be stuck at the penthouse level. Clearly _someone_ is still brooding and doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

Sometimes, Spike really hates the bastard.

He wishes he could hate him all the time, it’d make things a lot simpler.

When night finally falls, Spike takes the Porsche and goes to his own assignment. When he peers into the crib, blue eyes wide as the ocean look up at him, and all he can think of is Connor.

He must know, by now. And he must be mad as hell.

Spike hopes he’ll forgive them.

*

There’s still light outside when Connor gets to the address he was given. He drives the car slowly up the tree-lined driveway. The closest neighbors are a quarter mile away; that’s good, he won’t need to be too discreet. Although, when he parks in front of the two-story house and gets out, he has to wonder how he could have disguised the sword in his hand. Maybe if he wore a long coat like Spike, or like Angel…

He stops that train of thought as soon as his father appears in it. He can’t think about him now. He doesn’t dare let himself think about him now. Later, when the fight is over, he will. When he can see Angel, talk to him, see his eyes, then it’ll be safe to think about all of it. Freaking out again now that he’s alone, that there’s an enemy just yards away, that he has a task to accomplish, wouldn’t help anything. Getting himself killed wouldn’t help anything either.

He takes a deep breath in and flexes his fingers around the hilt. Three steps take him to the front door. It’s slightly ajar.

Teeth clenched, shoulders loose, he pushes the door open and steps in, closes it quietly behind him. His eyes dart everywhere. Quiet, steady breaths, taking in every smell, every sound. He learned to hunt on a world where there were no doors to close, no staircases, no tile floors or finely crafted swords. He has come a long way since those first lessons. It all comes back without a thought.

Except… He doesn’t smell, hear, or see anything; the house is empty, bare walls, bare rooms, dust on the wooden banister that leads to the first floor. He goes up anyway, light feet on the staircase, and he never makes a sound. It wouldn’t matter if he did: the three bedrooms and the bathroom are empty.

At first, Connor thinks that someone must have tipped off the demon his father sent him to kill. But the more dust he sees, the more stale air he breathes, the more he realizes that no one has been in this house for quite some time.

Just to be thorough, just because he doesn’t want to follow all this to its natural conclusion and be mad at Angel, he returns to the first floor, looks around for a basement door. He finds it in the kitchen – but that’s not all he finds.

There are scents lingering here, cologne and scotch, and that little something he can’t define but that in his mind is forever associated with Wesley. More than that, though, he smells burnt herbs, and it must be his imagination but he could swear he can feel tingles creeping up his spine; Wesley did magic here, not very long ago. Maybe hours, probably not more than that.

He knows it can’t possibly be good even before he notices the envelope propped against a glass on the counter. His name is written on it in a cursive handwriting he doesn’t recognize. 

Resting the sword on the counter, he picks up the letter with a trembling hand and tears it open. Unfolding the piece of paper, he looks immediately at the bottom, looking for the signature.

When he finds it, he closes his eyes tight. He can imagine a few things this letter says, and he doesn’t like any of them.

“Dad, don’t do this to me,” he whispers, and opens his eyes again to read.

_My dearest Connor,_

_By the time you read this, I imagine you’ll already have figured out that there is no demon in this house for you to kill. Maybe you’ll even have realized that you are trapped inside._

His eyes widening, Connor looks up; the back door is straight ahead of him. He walks to it, throws the door open and tries to step out. An immaterial barrier stops him, energy rippling under his fist when he tries to bang against it. Gritting his teeth, he opens the window above the sink; the same barrier is there too. Connor never liked magic; this is not changing his mind, far from it.

The letter is crumpled in his hand. He sits at the kitchen island before his knees can buckle under him and smoothes out the piece of paper on the marble counter. His heart in his throat, he starts reading again.

_—trapped inside. You’ll only be allowed out when one of these two things happen. The sun rises again, or a vampire invites you out. If all goes well, Spike will come to you in a couple of hours and the two of you can leave town._

“Like hell we will,” Connor mutters, incensed. And if at first the anger is only aimed at Angel, it doesn’t take him long to realize – Spike must know. He has to. And he didn’t say anything, he let Connor babble all day about this fight, about what they’ll do after, he freaking kissed him goodbye and said he’d meet him at the rendezvous point.

Liars. Both of them. Connor is going to kick their sorry asses.

“Leave town.” He snorts. “Not gonna happen, Dad.”

_I’m sure that right now going away is the last thing you want to do—_

“At least you got one thing right.”

_—but you can’t fight anymore. This was not the life I wanted for you, not ever, and I think you should go back to being who you were before you regained your memories._

“What about what _I_ think?” he mutters, glaring at the words on the page. “What about if I can’t go back to being that boy?”

But of course, there’s no answer. Awfully convenient for Angel that he’s saying all that on paper rather than in person.

_I signed a contract with Wolfram & Hart. No demon will come after you, or your family. You will be safe, you and those you love, as long as you live. The only requirement is that you never kill a demon again._

A bubble of laughter rises to Connor’s lips, bitter and sour enough that he grimaces. Never kill a demon again? What else? Stop breathing, too? And what does that mean, those he loved? Is Spike covered by that? Is Angel?

_All I ever wanted was for you to be safe, and happy. I hope you’ll find it with a peaceful life. I’ve failed many times, but please allow me to give this to you now._

For a second or two, Connor’s vision blurs. Angel didn’t fail. Doesn’t he know that? All things considered, he even did a decent job, and it’s not his fault if Connor’s life is… complicated.

Blinking several times, he starts reading again. And if he was angry until now, it’s soon pure rage that courses through his veins. Angel is _apologizing_ for what happened? Like he’s the one who asked for it? Like Connor couldn’t have stopped him if he hadn’t wanted it?

Earlier, the one thing Spike said that calmed Connor down was that Angel knows now that Connor loves him. But does he? If he thinks he needs to apologize, if he’s sorry it happened, if he feels guilty… does he think Connor reproaches him what happened? Is that what he’ll be thinking of, when he starts this battle? Will he let it distract him? Is he _trying_ to get himself killed?

Connor’s heart skips a beat. It’s all starting to make too much sense, suddenly.

He can’t even finish the letter, his gaze flying over it and stopping on individual words, each like a blow to the face.

 _explain…your family…hurt…broke my heart…acceptable…upset…always regret…I love you…your father_.

Getting to his feet, he stumbles a little and walks over to the stove. There’s a box of matches next to it. He tries to light one, but the match breaks between his fingers. So does the next one. On his third try, he finally manages to set the letter on fire. He never wants to read it again. Never wants to be reminded of just how badly his father knows him.

When the letter is ashes, black specks staining white marble, he turns back to the island and closes his hand on the hilt of his sword. His mind is blank as he walks to the entrance. He opens the door wide and tries, but of course he can’t go out. Leaving the door open so he can see outside, he sits on the staircase, the sword laid out over his lap, and waits. Spike or sunrise, although he hopes it’ll be Spike so he can yell at him. He hopes he won't have to do more than yell.

He’d forgotten what it felt like to be so mad at his father. At least, this time, he doesn’t want to kill him. That doesn’t mean he won’t put his fist in Angel’s face when he sees him next. Because he _will_ see him again, he promises himself. He’ll see him again, even if he has to go all the way to hell to find him.

*

Standing over Hamilton’s body, Angel licks his lips, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then shifts out of game face. 

“Thanks for the pick me up,” he tells the dead… whatever Hamilton was. “And you should never have touched my boys.”

The building is shaking more and more around him. Angel starts leaning down to retrieve the knife sticking out of Hamilton’s chest, but he thinks better of it. This chapter of his life is over. He doesn’t need the knife anymore.

Stumbling through shattering glass and falling debris, he finds the weapon he needs then makes his way out of the crumbling building that never really was his kingdom. He only stops running when he’s far enough, and looks back to see hell swallow the building – or what’s left of it. The next second, the skies split apart and a torrential rain starts falling down on LA, making everything a little darker, a little less real. Angel starts running again, feet splashing in the forming puddles, until he reaches the rendezvous point. His heart tightens a little when he realizes he’s the first one there, and for the first time that night he allows himself to think of Connor. 

Did Spike reach him yet, or is he still waiting, alone and undoubtedly seething? It’s too late for Angel to change anything now, but he hopes that Connor will understand – probably not tonight, he’s probably too mad for that, but in a few days, maybe, he’ll begin to understand why Angel did this. Why there was no other way.

Pacing back and forth through the alley, Angel loses notion of time, and he couldn’t say how much time has passed when Illyria and Wesley arrive together. He doesn’t ask them how things went; if they’re here, Angel has no doubt they fulfilled their tasks.

“Lorne?” he says simply, raising an eyebrow at Wesley.

Wesley shrugs. “He’s ok. He said he told you this was his last fight?”

Angel nods. He’s not surprised per se, but some part of him was hoping Lorne might change his mind. Then again, it only means that one more of them will survive this night.

It’s a few more moments before stumbling steps have all of them look toward the mouth of the alley. Gunn staggers to them, and Wesley has him lean down against the wall so he can examine his wounds. The glance he throws at Angel speaks volumes, even if Wes doesn’t say a word. 

“He won’t live long,” Illyria assesses, her voice colder than the rain, but in her eyes Angel could swear he sees just a hint of Fred’s concern.

Before he can reply, a car turns into the alley, its high beams blinding Angel. He raises his left hand, tightens the right over his sword’s hilt, and curses when the headlights turn off and he recognizes the flashy red car.

Both doors open. Spike comes out first on the passenger side. Angel’s eyes flicker to him, but immediately return to the driver side where Connor appears. He reaches back in to pick up a sword, and approaches Angel with a determination that, the last time Angel saw it, ended in someone’s death.

Connor’s sword rises; Angel does nothing to stop its point from coming to rest against his throat.

“You prick!” Connor shouts. His hand starts shaking and the sword nicks Angel’s skin. Connor lowers the sword, but he keeps glaring at Angel. “You thought I was going to let you die like this? You thought I was going to let you decide for me _again_?”

Angel starts shaking his head, opens his mouth to protest, explain, tell Connor that he still has time to get to safety, but Connor doesn’t let him say a word.

“You thought a fucking letter was going to cut it?” he continues, and if his voice is quieter now, the same rage still fills every word. “It worked so well for Holtz, you thought what the hell, it’d work great for you too? Honestly?”

Angel’s heart drops to his stomach. He never even thought of that. Never wanted to remember Holtz’s parting letter, and his suicide by proxy. Never wanted Connor to think that he hadn’t planned to survive the night – he didn’t think he would come out of it unscathed, but he didn’t actually _want_ to die.

“No, I… I didn’t think of Holtz. I—”

But Connor doesn’t even appear to hear him. Eyes blazing more fiercely that ever, he glowers at Angel.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Dad. Not again.”

Blinking, Angel gapes at Connor. Is that what he thinks? Are those tears in his eyes?

“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you,” he says, grabbing Connor’s arm and probably squeezing too tightly as Connor winces. “I just wanted you to be safe.”

For all the conviction he puts into his words, Connor doesn’t seem to believe him, and he just pulls free of Angel’s grasp, still glaring. Angel looks around him, eyes searching for someone who could tell Connor that he isn’t lying, confirm that Angel wasn’t trying to get rid of him, and what a ridiculous idea that is!

But when Angel’s gaze falls on Spike, he forgets about witnesses, and can only think of betrayal. The idiot is standing there, two feet behind Connor, like Connor needs his help or support. Like he wasn’t supposed to help Angel. 

Angel all but growls at him. “I told you to keep him away from the fight!”

A slight smirk blossoms on Spike’s lips, and Angel has to quell the urge to pick it with his closed fist. “Yes,” Spike drawls, “that’s what you told me. But did you ever hear me agree?”

Angel stares at him, taken aback. “Did I ever…” He blinks. Thunders. “You never said you _didn’t_ agree!”

Spike shrugs, tries to light up a cigarette, but it’s still raining too hard. At the snick of his lighter, Connor turns to him, cups his hand over the cigarette, and Spike can finally light it. He thanks Connor with a soft smile, but his lips turn positively devious when he looks back at Angel.

“I didn’t know if I agreed or not,” he says, blowing smoke toward Angel. “If my boy had wanted to stop fighting, I’d have kept him away, like you said. But he didn’t, so…”

Connor rolls his eyes, first at Spike, then at Angel for good measure. “Of course I didn’t. And you knew it. Both of you.”

“Not to intrude,” Wesley says behind them, his voice urgent, “but we have company.”

It only takes Angel a second to see what he’s talking about. Demons are appearing at the end of the alley, beyond the car. Too many of them.

Angel presses one hand to Connor’s back and pushes him toward Spike. “Take him,” he barks, fire in his eyes letting Spike know that the games are over. “Get him out of here before he gets hurt.”

Of all things, Connor laughs, and for a second or two, Angel can’t help but think of Drusilla, of madness and pale limbs, pretty lips calling for Daddy. He chases that thought away, along with the guilt that comes with it. This is not the time or place. It will never be again.

The laugh ends, but Connor is still grinning when he drops his sword. It clatters to the ground, the metal clashing loudly on the asphalt. Angel is too stunned to even move.

“But that’s the thing, Dad,” he says as he turns toward the approaching demons. “They can’t hurt me, can they? Not unless I attack them first.”

Angel understands just a split second after Connor starts walking toward the demons, empty-handed and his arms stretched out on either side of him, like he’s offering himself in sacrifice. With the car blocking most of the alley, they can’t come through without running over him. Weapons, claws, horns are all Angel can see, all of them approaching Connor much too fast. Angel screams his son’s name and tries to take a step forward to stop him, belatedly realizing that there are hands holding him back. Spike’s hands are on his left arm, Illyria’s on his right, Wesley’s on his shoulder.

“Let him,” Spike says.

“They’ll stop,” Gunn coughs behind them. “The contract. They can’t hurt him.”

But Angel doesn’t care about contracts or clauses. He doesn’t care about anything but this: his son is walking straight into harm’s way. To save him. 

This was not how things were supposed to go. It was always supposed to be him, defending his boy until he was ashes. And instead…

Freeing himself from those too many hands, he starts running toward Connor. The demons are almost on him.

Suddenly, everything turns white. Angel blinks furiously. When he can see again, he can barely believe his eyes.

*

The flash of light is so fast, Spike doesn’t have time to close his eyes and protect his night vision. He blinks furiously to clear the afterglow, and when he can see again, he frowns at what he sees.

Angel has reached Connor, and with a hand on his shoulder, he draws him backwards. Surprisingly enough, Connor lets himself be pulled away from the demons and back towards the group. Even more surprising, the demons have stopped charging. They stand just yards beyond the car, foaming at the mouth, weapons clashing together as they stand so close to each other. And in front of them, calmly following Angel and Connor, her heels clicking on the wet asphalt but her suit and hair untouched by the rain, a woman approaches.

All Spike needs to do is look at the widening eyes around him to know that he’s the only one who has no idea who that woman is, although he’s not quite sure why they all look so surprised – no, stunned – to see her there. It takes him a moment to realize she has no heartbeat, but in their group, that’s not exactly unusual.

“Who—” he starts when Angel and Connor reach him and stop.

Angel doesn’t even seem to hear him. “Lilah,” he says coldly. “I could say I missed you, but you’d know it’s a lie.”

Lips colored a dark, dark red curve into a sardonic smile. “Same here, really. But seeing how you killed their last representative, the Senior Partners called me back. Again. You’re making it hard to enjoy my retirement.”

Snorting, Angel shakes his head. “What do they want?”

Lilah doesn’t even blink. “I think your head on a platter would make them very happy, but seeing how you signed away the Shanshu, the best they’ll get is ashes, I suppose.”

The mention of the Shanshu is casual enough that it could be random, with no meaning behind it. But the fleeting glance she casts toward Connor tells a different story altogether. She’s not talking to Angel; she’s playing Connor, giving him a bit of information that she thinks will make him act to her advantage.

It doesn’t miss.

Eyes wide as saucers, Connor turns to Angel. “You signed it away? Why?”

Angel presses his lips into a tight line and doesn’t say a word.

Spike is just as surprised as Connor, although in retrospect he realizes he should have seen it coming. “Was that the price for Connor’s safety?” he asks, but he already knows it has to be it. What else would be worth Angel’s ultimate reward?

Angel still doesn’t reply.

“It was,” Gunn says behind them, blood bubbling at his lips with each word. “He had me draft the contract.”

Spike doesn’t even need to look at Connor to know how upset he is. All he needs is to hear his voice.

“You did what?” Connor sputters at Angel. “Are you insane?”

Angel grabs the boy’s shoulder with one tight hand and shakes his head. “I already had my Shanshu,” he says, quiet words and it’s clear he’d like it better if there weren’t so many people around them. “It’s you, Connor. It’s always been you. As long as you live, so do I.”

Spike could kick Angel. Punch him. Or even just yell at him. He had the perfect opportunity to tell Connor all this, this morning when they were in bed, and never have to worry again about Connor being scared or confused. And instead…

 _Bloody idiot,_ he thinks, glaring at Angel, and that’s better than staring at Connor’s wide, wet eyes and wanting to kiss him silly until he’s not so upset anymore.

“An admirable sentiment,” Lilah says, a snicker badly hidden in her voice. “But I’m afraid my employers aren’t too keen on allowing you to live at the moment.” Her eyes sweep over all of them, crinkling at the corners when they briefly pause on Connor before coming back to Angel. “ _Any_ of you.”

Angel’s hand drops away from Connor, and when he turns fully to Lilah, he’s not a father anymore, he’s a general; it would all have been so much simpler if he could be both things at once.

“They want revenge?” he says, words as sharp and cutting as shards of glass. “Revenge for what? Allowing us to do whatever we pleased? Come on, Lilah, Don’t try to be cute. They saw it all coming and didn’t stop us. Hamilton knew. And if he knew, so did they.”

“So it seems, yes,” Lilah says, sounding supremely unconcerned. She raises her hand in front of her and appears to examine her nail polish. “But knowing you were planning something doesn’t mean they’re not mad now that you’ve done it.”

“It doesn’t mean they can break out of the contract either.”

Spike would have expected Angel to make that point, or even Gunn – although Gunn seems to be very busy trying not to die, sitting on the pavement with his back to the wall, eyes half closed and his mouth stained red. Instead, the words come from Wesley. He has been very still so far, very quiet except for his thundering heart. Spike thought he was afraid for a moment, but as he looks at him now, as he watches him watch Lilah, it’s something very different from fear that he sees; something that resembles the pain on Wesley’s face whenever he says Fred’s name or watches Illyria for too long.

“An interesting conundrum, yes,” Lilah says, and she’s not pretending to be bored anymore. As she looks back at Wesley, her smile softens into something that Spike wouldn’t have expected from someone who takes direct orders from Evil Incorporated.

“So. You can’t kill me, and I won’t let you kill them,” Connor summarizes. There’s no mistaking the tension in his voice. He’s still not happy about the Shanshu thing, of course not. Without thinking, Spike presses a hand to his back, letting him know without a word that he is there.

Connor throws a quick glance and smile at Spike before turning eyes as dark and gray as steel back to Lilah. “You can’t break the contract,” he continues, “but what about Angel? Can he?”

“I’m not—” Angel starts, but Lilah talks over him.

“If both parties agree,” she says, inclining her head to Connor, “the contract can be canceled.” 

She slips her hand inside her suit jacket and pulls out a piece of paper that she unfolds. Spike only catches a glimpse of it, but that’s enough for him to recognize Angel’s signature at the bottom. It's red as blood.

“Is that it?” Connor asks, eyes intently focused on the paper.

“The contract that makes you untouchable?” Lilah’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Yes, that’s it. A beautiful piece of legalese, and I’ve seen a few nice ones in my time.” She holds it out toward Angel, but he crosses his arms and refuses to take it. “The Senior Partners are offering you a way out, Angel,” she says, words as sharp as her smile. “I’d even call it a pass, really, for you and all your little friends.”

“I don’t need a pass,” Angel snaps.

“Don’t you?” Her eyes flicker behind Angel. “Tell that to Gunn. But hurry, because he won’t last much longer. And neither will anyone here if the demons behind me start moving again. You think they’ll just stop because your boy is in the way? Think again. They’ll find another way to get to your sorry lot. There’s a dragon, somewhere above us. It could fly right over Connor and come warm you up with a bit of fire, and then what?”

Without thinking, Spike looks up to the sky; he isn’t the only one. Rain falls in his eyes, and all he can see is the clouds cover above them, dark and menacing. Although… a shadow behind the clouds, almost directly above them, looks a lot like a wing… A dragon, really? Spike wouldn't mind fighting one of those, just to see what it's like.

“All these demons could disappear,” Lilah continues. “You could take Gunn to a hospital before he dies needlessly. Everyone here could survive this night. All you have to do is agree that this contract is null and void.”

“All I have to do is agree that tomorrow you can hurt my son to make me pay all this,” Angel counters. “That’s not— Connor no!”

But the contract is already in Connor’s hands, and he’s tearing it to pieces before Angel can stop him.

*

The feeling of sheer pleasure Connor experiences as he tears that damn contract apart barely lasts for a second. When he drops the pieces of paper, they disappear before they reach the ground. He can only blink in confusion when Lilah reaches inside her suit again to pull out the exact same contract, intact and untouched by rain or angry fingers.

“I’m afraid it has to be your father’s decision, Connor,” she says with an amused little smile. “He’s the one who signed it, only he can rescind it.”

Snatching the contract from her, Connor hands it to Angel. “Do it,” he demands, making his words as strong as he knows how, showing Angel he’s not joking.

Angel shakes his head, crosses his arms a little more tightly over his chest. “No way.”

Glancing at Lilah, Connor asks, just to make sure, because this is Wolfram & Hart after all, “He’ll get his Shanshu back?”

She shrugs, almost looking bored, but Connor is not dupe. Maybe a year ago he wouldn’t have known any better. He’s not any smarter today than he was then, but he understands this world and how it works a lot better. She came here with an offer – a mission – and as detached as she may affect to be, she can’t afford to go back to her bosses without results to show. “If he’s the one supposed to get it, he will, yes.”

 _If._ Connor never even thought about it until now, but it could have been Spike. Not anymore. Wolfram  & Hart made sure of that, took that possibility away – that uncertainty. It has to mean they wanted Angel to be the one. But then, why agree to that contract? Why agree to void it now? It doesn’t make sense, none of it, and maybe the goal is simply to fuck with all their minds. But whatever Wolfram & Hart want, Connor doesn’t care. What matters to him is what _he_ wants – or doesn’t want. 

And if there’s one thing he wants even less than to have his future dictated by someone else, it’s for Angel to sacrifice anything more for him. He offered Connor another life; Connor will _not_ take the same thing from him. And if he wasn’t so angry, so confused, he would say as much. But with his mind white-hot and his tongue curling over curses he doesn’t want to voice now, all he can say is, “Do it, Dad.”

“I can’t. I want you safe.”

Spike huffs at Connor’s side, no doubt ready to utter those same insults Connor doesn’t want to use to tell Angel what an idiot he’s being right now. It’s not the time or place to fight, though.

“I can take care of myself,” he says. “And you know it.”

Thankfully, Angel doesn’t try to dispute that. “What about your family?” he asks. His mouth twists on the word _family_ , a reminder that he means people that are not him. “With this contract, they’re safe, too. They’ll stay safe as long as you don’t fight. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Connor makes himself _think_ about it before he answers. The faces of his mother, his sister, Lawrence all flash through his mind. He can’t bear to imagine them hurt, casualties in a fight that isn’t theirs. And still…

“Not like this,” he says softly. Closing one hand on Angel's wrist, he tugs lightly until Angel uncrosses his arms and gives him his hand, then presses the contract into his palm.

He does want his family – the Reillys – safe. But not to the expense of his other family – the real one. Somewhere deep inside, he’s grateful that Angel even thought of including them in this contract, as harebrained as the whole idea was. But is _is_ a stupid idea, and he refuses to let it stand. 

“I’ll protect them,” he continues, “one way or the other. But it’s _my_ job, not yours. And I’m not letting you or anyone here die because of me.”

Angel shakes his head again. “It’s not your decision. We knew what we were getting into when we started this.” 

He doesn’t look back at Gunn, but neither of them can fail to notice the scent of his blood, so thick it fills the alley even with the rain still falling in so thickly. If they take much longer – if Angel keeps refusing to see reason – Gunn will only be the first casualty.

Quick as the lightning flashing above them, Connor picks up the sword he dropped earlier, steps back out of Angel’s reach. “I’ll fight,” he says, and hopes Angel can see he’s not joking. “I’ll attack them, break the contract myself, and we’ll all die today for nothing.”

Angel’s eyes widen, filled with fear. It’s not a look Connor likes to see on him, but he’s not bluffing, and he’s glad Angel at least understands that.

“Connor don't!”

Connor flexes his fingers on the sword hilt. It’s wet and slippery, not the best way to start a fight, but if that’s what it takes…

“I’m not leaving you here to die. I can’t. Not after we—” A light touch from Spike’s hand to his shoulder, and Connor remembers they’re not alone – remembers that Spike understands, but others might not. And even if, it’s none of their business, not any of it. “Not after everything,” he finishes. “Please, Dad.”

Angel keeps looking at him. His face is blank again, void of any emotion, but his eyes are something else altogether. They’re burning as brightly as they were this morning, filled with the same love, the same devotion. When Angel blinks, something changes, and Connor lets out a relieved breath he didn't even notice he was holding. Angel won’t say no now, not any more than he did in the morning. He’s protesting because he thinks that’s the right thing to do, but he was wrong then, and he’s wrong now, and Connor just needs to keep pushing.

Resting a hand on Angel’s arm, Connor squeezes lightly. “Please, Dad,” he says again, and this time Angel doesn’t say no. This time, he sighs softly, looks down at Connor’s hand, then up at Lilah.

Connor listens to Angel yield, and maybe he shouldn’t smile, not when Gunn is still in such a bad shape, not when this is only a respite before another storm, but he can’t stop himself from grinning. Can’t help either feeling so warm inside, can’t stop pangs of need and undefined hope from thrumming through him.

*

Sunrise is beginning to lighten the streets when Angel unlocks the Hyperion doors, Connor and Spike right on his heels. The lights are on, everything is in its place and spotless, and for a second he is sure that Cordelia or Fred will appear behind the counter, or maybe Wes will step out of the office, or Gunn will pick up a weapon from the cabinet to go for a hunt.

But no. Cordelia is long gone, and this time she won’t return. Fred… sometimes, Angel forgets that Illyria isn’t Fred, but she is always quick to do something that slams that reality firmly back into place. She’s with Wes now, and Angel wonders how that will go. As much as Wesley misses Fred, it has to be painful to be around the walking and talking reminder that she is gone, but he volunteered for the job, so what could Angel say? Maybe if they both move into the hotel, it might get easier on Wes. Angel will have to make the suggestion, when he next sees Wesley. As for Gunn, he is at the hospital, and he will be there for a bit of time. He’ll probably need help getting back on his feet after that still, and a room will be waiting for him when he is released. He was out of surgery already by the time Spike and Connor dragged Angel out of the hospital to escape dawn, and the doctors were optimistic about his recovery, but the time for unnaturally fast healing and magically enhanced medicine is over. Angel will go back to the hospital at nighttime to check on him.

“What is this place?” Spike asks as he pushes past Angel and looks around him.

“It’s home,” Angel says tiredly, throwing a quick glance at Connor. How does he feel about being back to the hotel? His face does not show any clue, but then, his expression has been unreadable since they left the alley, and he hasn’t said much either. Angel organized the hotel renovations almost as soon as he took the head of Wolfram & Hart, and at the time he would never have imagined that Connor would ever be back. 

Taking from Connor the sword he never used tonight, Angel crosses the lobby and locks it, and his own, in the weapons cabinet. The familiarity of this simple gesture is almost eerie, like he has finally come home after a long trip. Everything is different, though, even the hotel.

It was much easier to have a dozen plumbers update the whole hotel at the same time – and restore the pool while they were at it – when money stopped being a problem. Angel had the electric system updated next, had the floors checked and repaired, the carpets redone, the walls patched, the rooms decorated. And the very last touch, just three weeks earlier, was given by a team of mages.

“It’s home,” he says again, “and it’s safe.” Coming back toward Spike, he turns a vicious grin to him. He hasn’t forgotten Spike’s betrayal, and they’ll have to settle that score somehow. They might as well start now. “Hit me.”

Spike blinks at him owlishly. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want to,” Angel says, snorting. “Just hit me.”

Spike is not one to let such an opportunity pass, and his mouth is curling on a grin, his fist already closing. Before he can raise it however, Connor grabs his wrist and shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says, and when he throws an exasperated look at Angel, Angel isn’t sure who he’s talking to.

“Why not?” Spike asks. “You want the first hit? Don’t say you’re not mad at him anymore ‘cause I wouldn’t believe you.”

Is Connor still mad, Angel wonders. Why would he be? He got what he wanted in the end, didn’t he? 

Try as he might, Angel doesn’t even fool himself for a minute. Of course Connor is still mad.

But Connor doesn’t reply to that last part. “You can’t hit anyone in here,” he says, “or this is what happens.” He curls his hand, raises it to the level of Spike’s shoulder, close enough that it would be a light punch if Angel didn’t grab his wrist and stop him like Connor just stopped Spike.

“You’re going to get hurt,” Angel mutters, looking away when Connor raises a questioning eyebrow at him. He releases his hand fast; he had forgotten already how warm Connor’s skin is, how soft.

“You were going to have Spike hurt himself,” Connor shoots back, reproachful.

Spike’s frown goes back and forth between the two of them. “What am I missing?” 

“Spell,” Connor replies with a sharp look at Angel. “No demon violence in here. Is that it?”

“No violence at all,” Angel corrects. “Not even from humans. I had another spell added.”

“I guess I should have punched you in the teeth for all that nonsense before we came in,” Connor says dryly.

Angel knew this would come sooner or later, but he’s not ready for it, not ready to confront the anger in Connor’s eyes. He sighs and turns to the staircase, already climbing up even as he throws over his shoulder, “Can we not do that now? It’s been a long night. I’m tired. I’ll let you yell all you want tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for Connor to reply. It’s not just that he’s tired, he also needs time to prepare for this discussion – this fight – and line up his arguments. He never thought he’d need to explain himself. He doesn’t look forward to it.

He’s already halfway up the steps when Connor’s voice rises behind him, small and pleading, no more anger hiding in it. “Dad? Can we—”

Angel is scared to know how this sentence would end. He cuts in without looking back. “I’ve had the hotel entirely renovated, just pick any room you want.”

As for him, habit leads him to his old suite. He closes the door behind him and rests against it for a moment. He’s tired, mentally and physically, but the numbness doesn’t begin to hide the renewed guilt he feels. He thought a written apology would have to suffice, but he’ll have to say the words, won’t he? He won’t have an excuse not to, now.

All he can hope, as he finally pushes away from the door and goes to the bathroom to take a shower, is that they pick a room far away from his. He has enough to be ashamed of already; he doesn’t need to be tempted to add to it. Doesn’t want either to know if he’d be strong enough to resist that temptation. 

Besides, he already knows the answer.

*

As Spike watches Angel go up to the second floor, he’s cursing him as loudly in his head as he did that morning. How many times is Angel going to walk away from Connor before he realizes how much he hurts him every time he does?

And indeed, when Spike turns to Connor, the unhappiness on his face is clear enough that Spike’s stomach twists. He’s reaching for Connor, drawing him into his arms, before he even knows it.

“Tired?” he asks, pressing the word and a kiss against Connor’s temple.

Connor shakes his head. “Why would I be?” he asks, bitterness filling his voice. “I didn’t fight tonight, did I?”

He doesn’t need to add how much he wanted to, needed to. Spike can read as much in the tension of his body, so rigid against his own. 

“You didn’t fight with your hands,” he says softly, running a soothing hand up and down Connor’s back until he can feel the clenched muscles there begin to loosen up a bit. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t do battle.”

Connor chuckles softly, tiredly, and doesn’t resist when Spike starts leading him up the steps. Maybe his body isn’t tired, but his mind is. He was a mess when Spike entered his magical prison, asking – no, shouting – a dozen questions before Spike could even give him one answer, and while he held on to his wits after that, he hasn’t said much at all since Lilah disappeared right along with the demon army.

“Bloody brilliant, you were,” Spike tells him as they go up. “Always loved to see the old man outsmarted. I like it better when I do it myself but—”

They’re halfway up when Connor stops abruptly and turns a deep frown to Spike. “Why didn’t you?” he asks, and on Spike’s confused look, adds, “Why did you let him set up this whole thing? You could have stopped him. Or told me.”

Spike gives him an indulgent smile and starts pulling him up again. “And if I had, he’d have come up with another half-cocked plan, and I wouldn’t have known about that one. Best to let him think everything was going his way and prove him wrong when it was too late for him to change a thing.”

When they reach the landing, Spike looks on both sides, hesitating. Angel went right, but he’s not sure whether to follow or not. Not sure what Connor wants – or Angel, for that matter, but he doesn’t care so much about that. Connor solves his dilemma by pulling him to the left, and pushing open the first door they come across.

“Did you ever hesitate?” Connor asks as he enters and turns on the lights.

Looking around, Spike wonders where the nice rooms are. This is… adequate, he supposes, with a wide bed, drapes on the window, and a bathroom behind a partially closed door. The paint is fresh enough that Spike can still smell it, and the bed has this look of not having ever been slept in. Still, if they’re going to live in a hotel, he wants a suite. A large one. Sitting room, king-sized bed, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. And if at all possible, all of it better than the room Angel claimed for himself.

“Spike?” Connor’s impatient tone brings Spike’s attention back to him. “Did you ever think you’d go and fight with him instead of coming to get me?”

Not the best room, but it’ll have to do for now. Shrugging out of his duster, Spike lets it fall to the carpet at his feet and advances on Connor. He pushes him back onto the bed and climbs over him on hands and knees.

“Do you _really_ need to ask, boy?” he says, the words rumbling out of his chest like a purr.

When he presses down for a light kiss, he can feel Connor hardening under him. Tentative hands rest on his hips for a second before tugging his t-shirt out of his jeans and sliding under it to find skin.

“Even…” Connor stops, licks his lips, and starts again. His eyes are troubled, and for all that Spike wants to kiss him again, he waits to know what he has to say. “Even last night? When he told you I knew about your soul, didn’t you think—” 

Spike has heard enough. Cupping Connor’s face in both hands, he kisses him deep and hard, pressing his tongue in and touching everywhere he can reach, claiming Connor as his own once again. He only stops when Connor’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest, his dick twitching alongside Spike’s, his hands clenched tight on his back.

“If you hadn’t come to me,” Spike murmurs, caressing Connor’s cheeks with his fingertips, “if you hadn’t come to _us_ , I’d have gone and found you. Either we’d have made up or you’d have staked me. Either way, I had an answer.”

There was another option, of course. Connor refusing to take Spike without a soul – and refusing to stake him. In that case, yes, Spike would have stayed with Angel, but that doesn’t mean he would have been happy. He and Angel, they _can_ take care of each other, play nice with each other – but that doesn’t mean they’re good at it.

He trails his lips over Connor’s cheek, his chin, his neck, sitting up when fabric gets in the way of his questing lips so he can get rid of Connor’s shirt and t-shirt, both still damp from the rain. Connor shimmies on the bed to help him, and soon he’s bare from the waist up, goosebumps rising everywhere Spike touches, fingers spread and palms pressing down against that so warm flesh.

“What about you?” he asks after a moment. He wants to kiss Connor again, but more than that he wants to look at him, wants to be able to catch every minute reaction that might say something Connor doesn’t. “Did you ever think about doing what he wanted? Not fighting anymore, just being a regular boy?”

Connor snorts loudly. His hands, which were content to rest at Spike’s waist until now, grab the hem of his t-shirt, tug it up and off him. With a twist of his hips and a steady push of his hands, he reverses their positions until he’s the one sitting astride Spike, looking down at him. “A regular boy?” he repeats, rolling his eyes. His hands lay flat on Spike’s chest, the right one above his still heart. “A regular boy with a vampire boyfriend? A regular boy who knows what kind of bad stuff happens at night, who could do something about it, but who’s not allowed to lift a finger?” He shakes his head, drops his voice to a murmur. “With the knowledge that my father bought my life with his own? No. It never was an option.”

Spike nods. “Didn’t think so.”

Covering Connor’s hands with his own, Spike strokes up his arms, caressing up to his shoulders then down his chest, long swipes of his hands on Connor’s skin meant to soothe more than arouse. The pain is back in Connor’s voice, the uncertainty, and if Angel was in front of him right now Spike would put his fist in that arrogant son of a bitch’s face – and nevermind that supposed spell and what it does.

His fingers linger against Connor’s crotch for a moment, fleeting touches against the burning flesh he can feel beneath the fabric of his pants. He bucks up, drawing a quiet hum from Connor’s lips, but before they go further than that Spike has one last question.

“What now, love?”

Connor blinks down at him, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Can we…”

Spike waits as patiently as he can for Connor to finish, but when no more is forthcoming, he says very softly, “Anything, my boy. Anything you want.” 

He has never meant anything more.

*

His fingers entwined with Spike’s, Connor leads the way out of the room. He has toed off his shoes, and for some reason he couldn’t explain he’s walking as softly, as quietly as he would if he were hunting. He’s not tracking anyone, though. He knows exactly where he’s going. He knew, as soon as Angel disappeared upstairs, which room his father would end up sleeping in.

If he’s entirely honest with himself, he was sort of hoping he and Spike would end up there before long too.

The hinges don’t make a sound when he turns the handle down and pushes the door open. For the first time since Spike said yes, he hesitates. Angel didn’t give any indication at all that he was open to a repeat, quite the contrary in fact. What if he sends them away? What if he think that Connor—

“Shhh…” Spike kisses his earlobe, whispers, “It’s gonna be all right, I promise.”

Connor has never wanted to believe him more than he does now. Squeezing Spike’s hand, he finally enters the suite, but falters again and stops in the sitting room. Spike takes the lead and pulls him toward the bedroom. It’s empty, but the sound of running water behind the closed bathroom door makes it clear where Angel is. Connor looks at Spike, raises a questioning eyebrow at him. Should they join him? Spike answers with a single shake of his head before leaning in and pressing his mouth to Connor’s. 

Connor parts his lips and sighs into Spike’s mouth, allowing Spike’s tongue inside. Spike’s arms draw Connor closer, one hand sneaking to the front of his pants to undo them. His eyes fluttering closed, Connor kisses him back slowly but deeply, his own hands mirroring Spike’s. Pushing and shoving at each other’s clothes, they finish undressing, and there’s nothing left between them when Spike’s hands on Connor’s hips lead him backward and onto the bed. One arm wrapped around Spike’s neck, Connor draws him down with him, and their mouths never separate as they lie down, chest to chest and cock to cock.

The water stops running in the bathroom. Connor freezes. He can feel Spike grinning against his mouth. Moments later, when the bathroom door opens, they both turn their heads to watch Angel step out. There’s a towel secured around his waist, water droplets running down his chest, but it’s his face Connor looks at, and the strange expression he wears, like a cross between exasperation and resignation.

“There are seventy rooms in the hotel,” he says with a deep sigh, eyes turning away from them. “Why don’t you go and find a better one?”

“Was wondering the same about you,” Spike says, grinning. He rolls off Connor and rests on his side next to him, one hand propping his head and the other running lazily up and down Connor’s chest, coming closer to his straining cock with each pass. “The presidential suite’s too good for you?”

“This is fine for me,” Angel replies sharply. A roll of his eyes brings his focus back on them at the exact time when Spike’s hand slides over Connor’s cock. 

Connor swallows a gasp caused both by the touch of Spike’s hand and the heat in his father’s eyes before Angel tears his gaze away again.

“There’s a honeymoon suite on the third floor,” Angel starts, his voice choked up. “And also—”

“I am _not_ sleeping on the third floor,” Connor interrupts, and if Angel forgot that it used to be Jasmine’s floor – and that suite probably was hers – Connor has no intention to remind him. He rolls onto his side, pressing back against Spike behind him until Spike’s cock is nestled against his ass. Spike continues to caress his chest and dick in long, slow movements – and Angel continues to pretend he’s not watching from the corner of his eye. 

“And I don’t want another room,” Connor starts again, with a slight hitch in his voice when Spike rolls his balls in a careful hand. “Not tonight. Not after you tried to get rid of me.”

“Of _us_ ,” Spike interjects, and Connor nods in acknowledgment. 

“Not after you tried to get rid of us,” he repeats.

Angel turns to them again, already shaking his head. “I wasn’t…” His eyes start on Connor’s face, but they soon flicker down to where Spike is slowly tugging on Connor’s cock. He swallows hard. His towel was moving a little so far, but now it’s highlighting rather than hiding his hardening dick. “I just…” he starts again, and his voice breaks. He sighs, deep and heavy, and one day, maybe even tonight, he’ll understand that he doesn’t have to carry the entire world on his shoulders. “You know it wasn’t like that,” he finally says, looking away again. 

“Wasn’t it?” Connor asks, more coldly than he meant to, but this works; he’s still mad about that, and he has no problem with Angel knowing it. “You could have fooled me with that letter.” 

Spike makes a quiet, questioning sound. Turning back to him, Connor presses an open mouth kiss to his neck. “Oh yes,” he says, and while he’s talking to Spike, the words are just as much meant for Angel. “I didn’t tell you. There was a letter waiting for me in that house. And he _apologized_ about this morning.”

Although it’s morning again, so should that be last morning? It doesn’t matter. Spike’s slow blink and even slower frown make it clear that he understands. “He did what?” he asks, incredulous. His hand has stopped stroking; it’s pressed tight against Connor’s chest, right over his heart, holding him close.

“He apologized for touching me.”

And Connor is not _trying_ to make his voice waver. He’s not trying to sound like he’s about to cry. But that’s the way the words come out, and it’s too late to take them back. All he can do is swallow around the lump in his throat, and trust – hope – that Angel won’t cut him open again; words on paper proved more painful than steel.

Hand sliding to cup Connor’s face, Spike kisses him lightly, mouth first, eyelids next, one after the other, the tip of his nose and a quick bubble of silly laughter bursts on Connor’s lips. Forehead at last, the kiss followed by a brush of his fingers, and if Connor holds back the urge to say thank you, Spike seems to hear it anyway and smiles.

The smile doesn’t last, though. When he looks up at Angel, his glare is scathing. “How thick are you?” he snarls. “You bloody idiot, I can’t believe you fucking _apologized_. Gave you what you wanted and—”

“Shut up!” Angel barks, and in a flash of insight, Connor understands what it is that made him react. Not the insults, not the reproaches, but that admission they’re all dancing around. Who wanted what? Who wants what, still? Spike enlightened Connor, but maybe Angel needs to hear it too.

Taking a deep breath, Connor catches his father’s gaze and holds on to it. For all that Angel is on the other side of the room, he feels like he's close enough for Connor to touch. “What Spike means is, he gave both of us what we wanted.”

Angel blinks slowly, and Connor isn’t sure that he believes yet. What will it take?

“And then,” Connor continues, still as quietly, “you went and ruined it all with that apology.” He turns his eyes back to Spike, because he might be naked and hard on that bed, it’s his soul he’s baring to his father, and he’s starting to choke up a bit. “What was it you called him?” he asks as a breather.

Spike smirks, and maybe he understands. “A bloody idiot,” he drawls. “I like to call him a bastard, too. Nancy boy’s an old favorite.”

Connor forces a chuckle out. “Yeah. I think idiot is a good one. Or moron, maybe.”

When Angel growls, Connor can feel it all the way down to his toes – all the way to the tip of his twitching dick. 

“I’m still your father, boy,” he says, and Connor really couldn’t say who he’s talking to. “You watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” Spike challenges. “You’re gonna try to get rid of us again?”

Connor doesn’t wait for Angel to reply. He takes his courage in both hands and says, “If you want us to behave, you’ll have to make us.” He swallows hard and finishes in a whisper. “And if you want me to believe you love me, you’ll show me you do. And you won’t apologize afterwards.”

*

Angel’s annoyance that Connor is picking up one of Spike’s most exasperating habits right along with new insults vanishes in a blink when he understands. And maybe he is the moron Connor is calling him, because it didn’t occur to him until now that this display was anything more than teasing, taunting pushed to its extreme, like when they fucked in that alley, except that only Spike knew he was watching, then. He didn’t stop to think that yes, of course Spike would play this game again just to rile him up, but Connor wouldn’t, not even to humor Spike. He didn’t let himself _hope_ that it was more than a pretty show he ought not to watch; that it was a pretty show he could join, too – not that he ought to do that either.

But it’s not only sex Connor is demanding here, like it wasn’t only the right to fight he was demanding earlier. Now like then, it’s the same thing he wants, the same thing he’s all but daring Angel to give him. The same thing he asked for, more than a year ago, beaten and broken and still snarling in the face of Angel’s professed love. A proof is all he wants, all he needs. One more to add to a long list – but was anything Angel did ever enough?

He understands why Connor doubts, again and again. Understands that part of it is Angel’s own fault; it seems that every decision he ever made concerning Connor always ended up being the wrong choice, or being misinterpreted. The latest ones – that contract, and that letter – are only two more examples of how he hurt Connor without meaning to.

And now… now Connor is offering him a way to erase those mistakes. All he needs to do is forget that this might be a mistake too. No, it _is_ , there’s no might about it, for all that it feels right it’s also so very wrong.

While Angel argues with himself, countering words like _father_ and wrong and _sin_ with just one thought: _love_ , Spike starts kissing Connor again, mouth fleeting over his face, his neck, his chest, the same way his fingers play on Connor’s dick. Prelude to a concerto, light and teasing, just a hint of the deeper, stronger notes yet to come.

Connor has closed his eyes, maybe so he won’t see Angel hesitate, or maybe so he won’t see him leave, and he never sees either the look Spike throws toward Angel, a curious mixture of exasperation and pleading. And while Spike doesn’t say one word, Angel can hear him perfectly well. _What are you waiting for?_ he’s asking, echoing Angel’s thoughts. _An invitation? Permission? He already gave you that. Haven’t you hurt him enough already? Why would it be wrong if he’s asking you to – if you both want it?_ Angel always hates it when Spike is right, but at least this time, when he’s only right in his own head, he doesn’t have to admit it.

The first step is the hardest to make, perhaps because he locked his knees so tightly to stop himself from going to them. The second step isn’t as difficult; Spike nudges Connor’s face back toward Angel and his eyes flutter open. He drops one of his hands from where he was holding on to Spike’s shoulder and reaches out toward Angel, palm up and open as it rests on the bed between them. One more step and Angel can take this offered hand. He holds it tight, lets Connor tug him the rest of the way, climbing onto the bed on his knees like the supplicant he is.

Pulling Connor’s hand to his mouth, he presses a kiss to his knuckles, breathes out, “I do love you,” and Connor answers with a beaming smile that sears Angel down to his soul.

Behind Connor’s ear, Spike huffs, but when Angel gives him a sharp look, a half grin tugs at his mouth. “Well?” Spike says with a slight eye roll. “You’re gonna kiss and make up, already?”

Annoyance rumbles through Angel’s chest. He still hasn’t forgotten that Spike defied him, tonight; that he brought Connor back to danger – to Angel – instead of taking him to safety. Later, when it’s just the two of them, he’ll give Spike the punishment he deserves. And then, he’ll thank him, too. But this is for later; unlike Spike, Angel can wait.

“Some day,” he tells Spike, matching his eye roll, “you’ll learn patience. And then you’ll see that good thing come to good boys who wait.”

Before Spike can argue any more, Angel looks down at Connor. He lets go of his hand so he can caress his face instead, careful fingertips fluttering over his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his mouth. He leans down and follows with his lips; they’re both trembling when his mouth touches Connor’s.

Connor’s tongue presses past Angel’s lips, as light as Angel’s hand where it now rests over Connor’s heart. Not for long, though; Connor raises his head to kiss Angel a little harder, a little deeper, and at the same time Spike picks up Angel’s hand and leads it down Connor’s chest and straight to his cock. 

Ten fingers on thick, hard, burning flesh, and Connor gasps. His head goes down, ending the kiss. His hips go up, pressing his cock harder into Angel’s and Spike’s joined hands. His moan is pure music.

“My pretty, pretty boy,” Angel murmurs, watching pleasure and need flicker on Connor’s face like the shifting colors of a prism catching sunlight.

Spike’s fingers tighten, drawing Angel’s eyes to him. 

“Our pretty boy,” Spike says, meeting his gaze squarely. 

The words could be chastising, they could be possessive, they could be daring Angel to make this into an argument. They’re none of that, though, just plain and bare; truth. And it would be easy to deny it, easy to let out the growl that’s unfurling deep inside Angel’s belly, draw Connor into his arms, snarl in Spike’s face and put him back in his place. But why would Angel do that? Why, when he and Connor would still be trying to find each other, still be looking for a way to connect, if Spike hadn’t taken them both by the hand?

“Our boy,” Angel agrees, and it’s not _easy_ , but it’s worth it if for nothing more than the flash of relief in Spike’s eyes, or Connor’s quiet, quiet moan when Angel leans over him to press a quick, hard kiss to Spike’s mouth.

“Pretty,” Connor all but purrs when they break apart and look down at him. Heavy-lidded eyes and lazy smile, he looks awfully happy with himself, like this was all his idea and they’re only playing the music he wrote. “Kiss some more,” he demands, greedy pout settling on his lips. “I wanna watch you.”

Spike clucks his tongue before Angel can do the same. “Not about us, is it? All about this lovely boy.”

Both hands framing Connor’s face, Spike kisses him again, deep and slow. Angel watches them for a moment, mouth watering as he wants to join in, and yet strangely reluctant to interrupt them. It’s hardly the first time he has watched Spike kiss someone – or fuck someone, for that matter – but somehow it has never felt as intimate as this. Angel could be jealous – probably _is_ jealous, somewhere, deep down, always will be because these are his boys, and the thought that they can give each other something he can give neither of them tears him apart even as it comforts him – but it’s hard to begrudge them this moment when there’s a hard dick in his hand only waiting for him to do more than hold it.

The towel at his waist comes undone when he slides down the bed, but he barely notices. Spike is pressed against Connor’s side as he keeps kissing him, cock digging into his hip, and that leaves all of Connor’s chest for Angel to caress with his lips, a slow journey that only stops when he presses an open-mouth kiss to the wet tip of Connor’s cock. Angel remembers the taste of him, sampled from Spike’s lips, but this is different, this is simply Connor, warm and tangy, clean and just a little bitter. 

Need and want zing through Angel like lightning. He flicks his tongue along the slit, cleaning every bit of precome he finds. Connor starts moving beneath him, hips restlessly trying to push his cock up. It’s easy enough to figure out what he wants, and easier still to give it to him. Holding the root of Connor’s dick in his fist, Angel closes his mouth over the tip and sucks. Hard. Connor’s moan is muffled by Spike’s mouth but it’s still a beautiful sound. Angel wants more sounds just like it, sounds he made with his mouth, his hands – his dick.

One inch at a time, moving his hand down right along with his lips, he takes Connor’s cock into his mouth and to the back of his throat, licking and sucking and tasting every bit of him. Connor is whimpering by the time Angel’s chin is pressed to his balls, fingers clenched in Angel’s hair, his wordless pleas loud enough that Angel knows they stopped kissing. He looks up, and sure enough there are two sets of eyes watching him suck Connor’s dick. One pair is a pale, pale blue, washed out already by pleasure; the other is consumed with flames that Angel can feel licking his skin everywhere.

For a moment – one second, really – he freezes. Asks himself what on earth or in hell he thinks he is doing. It’s Connor who gives him the answer. With a jerk of his hips that pushes his cock a little deeper to the back of Angel’s. With two whispered, pleading words that sound like love, like need, like the seventeen years they did not share, but Connor was Angel’s even then, and that’s what these two words mean, maybe, along with many other things.

“Daddy, please.”

Raising his head, Angel lets Connor’s dick slip out of his mouth. Before either of them can protest, he looks at Spike. “Hold him,” is all he says, words he would never have dared utter if he wasn’t completely sure that Connor wants this every bit as much as Angel does.

At once Spike is grinning, moving up the bed, drawing Connor to rest against his chest.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Spike whispers into Connor’s ear when their boy grows restless. Angel pushes Connor’s legs up and Spike holds on to them, opening his body even as he croons again, “Shhh… Daddy’s here. It’s all right.”

The words go straight to Angel’s dick, make it leak a long, thin strand of precome that stains the sheets when he leans down. His mouth caresses Connor’s cock again, from tip to root, then his balls, Angel’s mouth opening so he can suck on them, one after the other. Small kisses take him lower still, and at the first touch of his tongue to the puckered opening, Connor sucks in a shaky breath and goes completely still in the cradle of Spike’s arms. Angel smiles against his boy’s baby-soft skin and presses the tip of his tongue inside him.

*

Spike can’t see exactly what Angel is up to, but he can imagine it just fine. Every sound, every small movement from Connor tells him the story of what’s happening. 

How Angel teases him at first, flicks of his tongue, maybe, against Connor’s opening until it’s twitching, asking for more the same way Connor does, sweet words falling from his lips like prayers.

How Angel finally yields – but then, there never was a question that he would, was there? Spike could tell the exact moment Angel’s tongue presses in. Connor’s body turns rigid against him, a drawn out moan filling the room.

How he fucks Connor with his tongue – and Spike can’t remain still anymore, can’t bear having Connor writhing on top of him, Spike’s cock trapped between them.

Holding Connor’s legs up still, like Angel said and in this instance Spike has no issue with obeying, he wriggles his way from under his boy, and lets out a quiet sound of relief when his cock is freed. He kneels up next to Connor, and now he can see everything. He can see the hunger on Angel’s face, and if it were anyone else beneath him he might wonder how long it will be before Angel’s fangs come into play and scratch lines on the inside of Connor’s thighs. He can also see the flush extending from Connor’s face all the way to his chest, the way he trembles, pink mouth open to allow mewling little noises out, his hands clutching the sheets, his eyelids at half-mast and hiding the pleasure in his eyes.

“Open your eyes, pretty boy,” Spike whispers, leaning in close. “Let me see how good Daddy is making you feel.”

Connor’s eyelids flutter like wings, fast and delicate, finally unveiling how pale his eyes are. They’re wet and wide as he looks at Spike, begging even better than the disjointed words that pass his lips.

“I… _Please_ … I want… Oh… _Oh_!”

Spike can’t help but brush a kiss to those pretty lips, bitten red and raw. When he looks back at Angel, ready to plead Connor’s cause, he finds that he doesn’t have to. Angel has kneeled up in front of Connor, and he’s slicking his cock with his own saliva. His hand is shaking, Spike notices, and wonders how close he is already, how long he will last, once he slips inside the tight heat of Connor’s ass. Spike can’t wait to see.

He leans down to kiss Connor again, just a flick of his tongue against his parted mouth. “You’re ready, luv?” he whispers when Angel’s hands replace his own on the back of Connor’s legs. “Want Daddy’s cock inside you?”

Connor breathes out a quiet “Yes.” The next second, his entire body jerks when Angel presses in. Sitting back on his heels, Spike fists his cock loosely and watches Angel’s slow, careful movements. Smiles to himself and turns a grin to Angel.

“He’s not gonna break,” he says, drawing Angel’s attention to him. “Anything you can give, your boy can take.”

The ghost of a frown crosses Angel’s face. If he asks how Spike knows _now_ , Spike is gonna punch him in the teeth, take his place and give Connor what he wants. But Angel doesn’t say a word, not to Spike, not to Connor when he raises a questioning eyebrow at him. Connor nods frantically, his entire body arching to get closer, take Angel’s cock deeper. Angel puts an end to that with a hand in the center of Connor’s chest, just below his thundering heart.

“Stay still, baby,” he whispers, words sticky with sugar and honey. “Let me.”

Connor stills down like the good boy he is, eyes wide and pleading for approval. What he gets instead is Angel’s hips slamming into him, and the slap of flesh on flesh is almost as loud as Connor’s surprised cry. Spike’s hand tightens over his own cock and, after a moment, he lets go; he doesn’t want to come before they do.

It isn’t long before Connor can’t stay still anymore and starts moving in counterpoint to Angel’s strong thrusts. Spike almost wants to turn to Angel and tell him, _see how well I taught him?_ , but his mouth is too dry for words. 

As he watches them move against each other, as he lets his hands caress them, touching Connor’s arms and Angel’s shoulders, Connor’s chest and Angel’s back, Connor’s cock and Angel’s ass, the feeling starts creeping inside his chest, as recognizable as it is unwanted. As close to them as he is, he slowly starts feeling left out. 

He brought them to this, told Connor he was fine with it, pushed at Angel’s objections until they crumbled to fine dust. The first time, back in the apartment, was all but perfect as far as he’s concerned. Perfect, because he was right in the middle of things, quite literally, the entire time, a very willing mediator between two hesitant men. 

But now… now he’s outside, and the feeling is much too familiar. He’s allowed to touch, yes, can taste skin salty with sweat, heady with lust, can kiss, too, and he does, caressing Connor’s cheek with his lips until his boy turns his face to him again and moans into his mouth. He kisses Angel, too, hand at the back of his neck and Connor whines, maybe because Angel’s hips slow down, maybe because he likes the view.

But a touch of his hands or mouth isn’t enough, far from it, when he can see how much they share with each look, each slide of Angel’s cock, each arching undulation of Connor’s hips. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he wonders – would Angel let him join them? Would he let Spike fuck him? This might be the one time when he wouldn’t put Spike back in his place with a snarl. Still, he might do exactly that, like he always has, and as much as Spike doesn’t want to feel left out, he doesn’t want to rob Connor of his moment either.

“Come here.”

He blinks to find Connor looking at him through hazy eyes, lips curled on a hungry smile.

“Come here,” Connor repeats, his voice gravelly. His fingers clutch at Spike’s thigh, working their way toward his cock. “Give me—”

A harder thrust of Angel’s hips and he finishes with a cry. His cock is leaking precome with every slide of Angel’s fist over it. Spike knows that rhythm, cock and hand, knows that look in Angel’s eyes; it won’t be long, now.

He knee-walks higher up the bed until Connor’s face is just inches away, turned toward him already, tongue peeking between his lips.

“Com’ here,” Connor says one last time, moaning. He’s shivering when Spike gets closer still, but his hand is steady enough when he takes hold of Spike’s cock and draws it to his mouth. 

The angle is too awkward for Connor to do much more than lick and suck at the tip, but it doesn’t matter.

It _really_ doesn’t.

One hand clutching the headboard and the other cupping Connor’s face, Spike tries to keep his eyes open, tries to keep watching this pretty, pretty boy he loves so damn much. But when Angel whispers in between two grunts, “Give him teeth, baby. Just a bit,” when Connor does just that with a grin that’s pure sin, Spike’s eyes shut tight and he howls, spilling himself on Connor’s tongue.

Connor sucks harder still, but not for long. Spike’s dick slips out of his mouth and he moans, long and low. Still breathing hard, his cock still twitching, Spike forces his eyes open to watch him come, head arched back and a stretched throat so long, so pale that Spike’s fangs itch. Collapsing next to him, Spike kisses him, swallowing every sound of pleasure. The bed rocks four more times with Angel’s thrusts, and then it’s his turn. Still gasping, Connor breaks the kiss and turns his head to look at him; Spike does the same, whispers, “Isn’t Daddy pretty when he comes?”

Connor hums in agreement. “Pretty,” he repeats, and the word is thick with pleasure and the come still coating his tongue.

Angel’s face is still so blissed out, Spike doubts he even heard them. He’s not pretty; he’s downright beautiful, head thrown back and Connor’s legs holding him close. Spike wants to touch him, but just as he raises his hand, Angel pulls back with a muffled groan.

Spike doesn’t wait to see how far Angel is going before he all but growls, “If you leave now we’re both going to be _really_ pissed off.”

Angel huffs and throws him an annoyed look before he lies down against Connor’s other side, one hand resting in the center of Connor’s chest. “It’s my bed,” he mutters. “Not going anywhere.”

It’s only when Connor lets out a long breath that Spike realizes he had stopped breathing. Curling against his side, Spike murmurs into his hear, “Love you.”

Connor turns a sleepy, dopey smile toward him. “Love you too.”

He purses his lips and Spike kisses him lightly before pulling back. On the other side, Angel is absolutely still. 

“Daddy too?” Spike murmurs, and Connor turns his head to Angel. Spike can’t see them, but he can guess the kiss is just as soft as the one he just shared with Connor.

“Sleep, baby,” Angel rumbles.

“You’ll be there when I wake up?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

Connor goes to sleep cradled between them, his heart slowly calming down. Spike listens to that familiar rhythm, waits until it reaches the cadence that means dreams, and then he breathes, “If you hurt him again, I’ll—”

He never gets to finish the threat. Angel’s voice is just as quiet as his, and yet stronger somehow.

“I won’t. I never wanted to.”

But that’s not enough. “All he wants is to know you love him,” Spike insists. “Whatever or whoever he is.”

Angel sighs. “I do. Always did. I’m just not that good at showing it or making it work.”

Spike can’t silence a snort. Connor shifts between them, but he doesn’t wake up, not at the quiet sound, and not when Angel’s hand slides up to caress his cheek.

“Think he’s okay?” Angel asks, still as quietly. 

“Yeah. He is.” He wouldn’t have fallen asleep so easily if he wasn’t, but Spike doesn’t care to explain how closely he has studied Connor’s sleeping patterns.

“What about you? Are you okay with all this?”

When Spike blinks in surprise, his eyelashes brush against Angel’s fingers just before they settle against his cheek.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, as confused from the question as he is from the touch.

“You never were very good at sharing,” Angel says on the same flat tone he might use to describe the sky as blue.

Spike wishes he could see him, just so he could roll his eyes at him. “No I’m not,” he agrees with just enough of a smile that Angel will hear it in his voice. “Learned that from you.”

Angel’s silence concedes the point.

“But this is not sharing,” Spike continues even more quietly. His gaze caresses the soft lines of Connor’s sleeping features. “The boy’s yours. Always knew that.” Quieter still, and a moth flapping its wings would make more noise than he does. “And I’m yours too, so that all works out.”

Angel doesn’t reply, but he props himself up on one elbow and looks at Spike over Connor. His hand slips to the back of Spike’s neck. The tug is gentle enough that Spike could easily resist it, but he doesn’t want to. He lets Angel draw him forward. Their mouths meet just above Connor for an uncharacteristically gentle kiss. Spike blames his tiredness; he’s sure Angel has an explanation for it too.

A quiet hum rises from beneath them; Connor is awake.

*

Connor’s mind is a little hazy as he opens his eyes to find them kissing above him. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, but he’s not tired and it doesn’t really matter. 

He doesn’t think, doesn’t let himself think. One hand at the back of Angel’s head, the other on Spike’s neck, fingers entangling with Angel’s, and he pulls them lower until he can lick at their joined lips. They taste just as pretty as they look.

They pull apart almost at once. That’s not what he wanted, and he opens his mouth to say as much, but Spike’s mouth presses against his, his tongue slides along Connor’s bottom lip, and all thoughts go out the window.

All thoughts but one. 

He remembers the previous morning, remembers how fast Angel left, and he can’t help but be a little afraid – be terrified – that Angel will do the same thing again. It only gets worse when Angel starts pulling away.

Spike breaks the kiss and frowns down at him – then frowns at Angel.

“Where are you going?” Spike asks, taking the words right out of Connor’s mouth.

Angel’s stills. If not for Connor’s hand, still curled at the back of his neck, they wouldn’t be touching anymore.

“I’m not…” Angel blinks. He takes a small sniff, then his features soften. His hand is gentle, even tender when he caresses Connor’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, and there’s a flame in his eyes that pleads for Connor to believe him.

Connor relaxes a little, even manages to smile. “Good.”

When he rests his cheek on Connor’s shoulder, Spike snorts, but thankfully refrains from commenting. Connor doesn’t need anyone to tell him he’s being too needy. He knows that. He just doesn’t care.

Just as Angel slides a little closer, Connor’s stomach grumbles, loudly enough that embarrassment flushes his face. 

Angel’s hand slides down to rest on Connor’s cheek, cool fingers soothing. He chuckles quietly against Connor’s temple. “Or maybe I’ll go get you food?”

Food sounds good. Very good, in fact, since Connor’s stomach keeps protesting not having been offered anything in too long. And still…

“You’ve got human food here?” Spike asks, his lips caressing Connor’s shoulder with every word.

“Not sure,” Angel says. “I’ll go and see. Be right back.” 

He’s already pulling away and Connor tries hard not to cling to him like a child. Tries hard, and fails, his hand tight and unyielding on Angel’s.

Spike’s fingers stroke along Connor’s chest, gentling. “Let him go, luv,” he whispers. “He’s coming back this time.”

Connor pinches his lips tightly together and opens his hand. Angel smiles reassuringly as he slips out of bed. Connor watches him put on pants and leave, and only then does he turn to Spike and asks, “What if he doesn’t? What if—”

Sliding on top of Connor, his weight anchoring him, Spike silences him with a kiss. “He will,” he says softly. “Give him a chance.”

For all that he tries to sound sure of himself, there’s a gleam in his eyes that promises hell and brimstone to Angel if he makes a liar out of him. Connor tries to swallow back his fears and nods. 

He’s not used to being afraid, he doesn’t _like_ to be afraid, and he feels a little embarrassed to be afraid now about something so silly. In one life, he used to be terrified whenever his father went off hunting by himself, terrified that something would hurt Holtz, claws, teeth or venom, terrified that he’d be left alone, no one to talk to him, teach him, love him. In another life, he had bad dreams for months – years – after getting lost in a store and being so damn scared he’d never find his parents again. It’s the same thing all over again, the same ice gripping his insides, and nevermind that the situation couldn’t be any more different, nevermind that Connor is a grown up and Angel is… Angel. If he walks away from Connor _again_ …

“Stop.”

He blinks. Spike is staring down at him, a serious look on his face. 

“Stop,” Spike repeats. “He’s just getting you a bite to eat, is all. Stop worrying, boy.”

After everything that happened, this word, said in Spike’s low, almost growly voice, still makes Connor squirm under him, tongues of fire licking along his spine. Wrapping his arms around Spike, Connor draws him tighter against him and scrapes his teeth against Spike’s mouth.

“Why don’t you give me something else to think about, then?”

The curve of Spike’s grin against Connor’s lips is just as wicked as the way he bucks against Connor, their cocks slowly hardening again between them. Sloppy kisses and frottage, like their first time all over again. Except that now, Connor knows what he’s doing, and he gives back – he hopes – as good as he gets.

Spike’s cock hardening against his causes Connor to arch into him, pulls moans from deep inside his chest, but it’s nothing compared to the wet whisper Spike presses to his neck.

“I want you. Want to take you. Hard. Get on your knees for me, boy.”

Painful need zings through Connor, straight to his dick, and it bobs up in the air when Spike sits up and moves off Connor. Swallowing back a moan at the loss of contact and at what’s to come, Connor scrambles onto his knees. He doesn’t have time to wonder what Spike is up to that already Spike slides a hand up his back, from his ass all the way to his neck. He pushes down and Connor props himself onto his hands on the edge of the mattress so he won’t fall.

“That’s it,” Spike practically purrs. “Such a pretty boy, you are. Such a _good_ boy.”

He pushes his cock inside Connor without warning, one hard thrust eased by Angel’s come. A whimper escapes Connor’s lips when Spike’s balls slap against his ass.

“You make such pretty noises too,” Spike murmurs, hands tight on Connor’s hips as he slowly pulls back. “Let me hear you, luv.”

He shoves himself back in, harder than before, and Connor does nothing to silence his moan. Slow movements, hard thrusts, and it’s good, it’s better than good, pleasure flashing through Connor every time Spike brushes against his prostate, every time he reaches a little deeper inside him. But it’s not a rhythm either of them will get off to, and before long he starts to wonder – is he supposed to beg? Is that what Spike asked for when he said he wanted to hear him? Should he push back against Spike, accentuate his movements – but no, Spike won’t let him, and when he tries, Spike's grip tightens enough to leave five-petal flowers on Connor’s skin.

“Patience,” he croons, leaning down to press a kiss in the center of Connor’s back. “Good things come to pretty boys who wait for them.”

Moments later, Angel returns, and Connor understands at once. His mouth is already watering.

*

As he goes down to hotel kitchen, Angel doesn’t have much hope to find food there, but he thinks he remembers that, long ago, they used to keep extra restaurant menus near the fridge, left there when they didn’t finish the take-out food and took it to the fridge for later. Angel tries hard not to think of who _they_ are – were – and of what they’d think of what he just did. He doesn’t need anyone to judge him, he can do that all by himself, and he will, just as soon as it’s safe to do so, as soon as he’s sure that he won’t hurt Connor again, however unwillingly.

At least, that’s the story he tells himself. Another story, maybe more truthful, could be that he doesn’t want to ruin this for himself.

The menus are long gone, as is the outdated kitchen from his memories – he fought Connor here, once; could have killed him before he remembered he was his son. In the brand new fridge however, he finds food. Eggs, some kind of juice, bread, butter, jam, beer – and a couple of brown paper bags he doesn’t care to open. From the dates on the egg carton and juice bottle, the food has only been there for a few days. It has to have been left by the construction workers, or maybe the decorators. Good enough for now. 

As he pulls three eggs from the carton, Angel realizes that he doesn’t know how Connor likes them best. Surely, he should know that. It’s so basic, he has no excuse not to. Spike probably knows, he thinks, and tries not to resent him for it. Swallowing back something that tastes like guilt, he closes the fridge, and at the same time closes the door on these thoughts. He doesn’t know _yet_. But he will. He’ll scramble them this time, because that’s the easiest and even he can’t mess that up, but he’ll ask Connor, and next time he makes breakfast for him, he’ll know. Next time he makes breakfast for him, everything will be different.

Finding a pan takes a bit of time; he finds the plates and glasses first, and pulls out one of each. He sets both on an oven tray, and finally finds the pans. While the eggs start cooking, he digs around for a fork. He’s almost proud of himself when he slides the eggs onto the plate.

He takes out the juice bottle and sniffs at the opening before pouring. It smells more like sugar than the fruits pictured on the bottle, but it’s that or a beer, and he’s not offering alcohol to Connor. He doesn’t want to wonder, later, if his mind was a little blurred – and nevermind that Connor’s consent so far was anything but equivocal. Besides, beer for breakfast would make him feel like a bad parent.

The thought is so incongruous, he shakes his head and almost laughs. Almost. He’s not quite that far gone yet.

He pours the juice and puts the bottle back in. The bread looks a bit suspect so he gives up on toast. Looking down at the tray, he can’t help but grimace. It looks rather pitiful, but that’s the best he can offer now.

Then again, he realizes as he returns to the bedroom and freezes by the entrance, maybe Connor isn’t all that hungry. 

He’s on all fours on the bed, hands right on the edge and clutching the mattress tight as Spike plows into him from behind, sharp strokes that shake Connor’s body, make his cock bounce against his stomach.

Angel’s dick hardens so fast it hurts. He doesn’t know where to look – at Spike and the way he moves, at Connor’s cock, his wide eyes, his lips, parted for a long, low moan…

“Well?” Spike says, drawing Angel’s eyes to him. A smug smile is playing on his lips. “Are you going to offer him something to eat or what?”

A look into Connor’s eyes is all Angel needs to know that he wants it – badly. His pupils are wide, a thin rim of blue around black holes that could swallow the entire universe. Angel puts the tray down on the dresser, his movements so jerky that he nearly tips over the glass of juice. 

He pushes his pants down as he approaches the bed. Connor’s mouth is already open, waiting, begging, like his eyes.

Angel palms Connor's cheek and runs his thumb over his lips. Connor draws it inside his mouth, suckling on it gently. His eyes never leave Angel’s.

“Is that what you want, baby?”

Connor nods without letting go of Angel’s thumb. He sucks harder when Angel pulls it out of his mouth, eyebrows furrowing unhappily – until Spike’s next thrust shakes that pouty look away and replaces it with pure need. 

Taking his dick in his hand, Angel moves a little closer. Connor’s eyes narrow and he strains forward. 

Behind him, Spike clucks his tongue and pulls him back. “Be still, boy,” he says, the edge of a warning in his voice like the glimmer of a blade. 

Angel glances at Spike. He’s moving even slower now, and it must be torture on both ends of that pretty cock he can just glimpse as it disappears inside Connor. He tilts his head, drawing Angel’s gaze to his smirk. Angel knows that one, and the self-satisfaction that shines through it. Spike is proud of himself. Hopeful that Angel will be too.

 _Look what pretty present I found for you, Daddy._ And those presents had come with ribbons and lace, long throats and wide eyes. Sometimes Angelus had enjoyed them alone, and sometimes he had shared with his boy. This, though, is more an invitation than a present. But if it were a present, it would be the nicest one of all. There’s a smile pushing at Angel’s lips, and he doesn’t try to stop it. _You did good, my boy._

Spike practically beams back at him before catching himself. “Our boy’s getting hungry,” he says, indicating Connor with his chin.

And indeed, Connor is making quiet little sounds, almost whimpers, his mouth just an inch from the tip of Angel’s cock. It might as well be on the other side of the room for the tight grip that Spike keeps on him.

Threading the fingers of his free hand through Connor’s hair, Angel pushes his bangs back, revealing his face like an opening curtain. He then tightens his fingers and holds Connor’s head firmly. With his other hand, he guides his cock forward and runs the tip along Connor’s mouth, painting his lips with precome until they're shiny and slick. 

When Connor licks his lips, Angel couldn’t say if it’s by accident or design that this pretty warm tongue brushes against the very tip of his dick. Electricity sparks through him, and his fingers close a little more tightly on Connor’s hair. It has to hurt, but Connor never makes a sound, and just keeps looking up at Angel, waiting like the good boy he is, the good boy he never had a chance to be for Angel before.

“You can suck, baby,” Angel murmurs, smiling down at him. “Gently now.”

Behind Connor, Spike has stopped thrusting; seated deep inside Connor’s ass, he’s running one hand up and down his back. Angel can’t see his other hand as it reaches around Connor’s hip, but he can imagine it all too well, wrapped around Connor’s pretty cock.

Or rather, he could imagine it if he wasn’t losing his mind with every tiny flick of Connor’s tongue against his cock. When Connor’s lips close around the crown and he begins to suck, Angel closes his eyes tight. He almost wants to pray he won’t come too fast – but whom could he pray to and be heard, with his son’s mouth wrapped around his cock?

*

For a little while, Spike manages to stay still but for his hand, fingers playing lightly along Connor’s cock. Quiet whimpers rise in the midst of those dirty little sucking sounds. Spike wishes he could see better, see Connor’s soft pink lips wrapped around Angel’s cock, see his cheeks grow concave when he sucks a little harder, but he can read every swirl of tongue on Angel’s face, every tightening of lips. Pretty, but far from enough. Not for any of them.

“Come on,” he drawls, “fuck him already. Boy can take it. He’s got a mouth made to suck cock.”

Angel’s eyes flutter open and he frowns at Spike, the protests all too clear before he even opens his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to,” Spike continues, like candy and dark alleys. “You’ve wanted it ever since I told you what a talented mouth he has. Haven’t you?”

He’s not just talking to Angel, and right on cue, Connor makes a quiet little sound of surprise, half muffled by Angel’s cock.

Fingers combing through Connor’s hair, Angel talks in the quiet whispers of confession. “Yes, he told me things about you, baby. How good you are.”

But he’s still not moving, or rather not moving much, his hips swaying so lightly he probably doesn’t even realize it – just like Spike is barely aware of the minute slides of his cock inside Connor.

“Show Daddy, luv,” Spike whispers, bending low to press the words to Connor’s skin. “Take him all the way in. Show him what a good, good boy you are.”

All Spike needs to do is watch Angel’s eyes close tight again to know Connor is swallowing around him, taking him deeper, all the way like Spike said, like they’ve been practicing. Angel’s eyes don’t remain shut for long, though. After only a second, maybe two, he looks down again, one hand running through Connor’s hair, the other holding his jaw. Spike understands all too well why his eyes are so wide, why he’s not blinking. Their boy is so pretty when he does this, the tiniest frown of concentration on his brow as he works his mouth and throat around a cock – as he worships it, really.

Every time until now, Connor had to stop just before the end, the tremor of reflexive gagging tightening his throat until he could control it, control himself, and finish with a hum of enjoyment that vibrated against Spike’s balls. There’s no stopping this time, just the steady pace of a determined boy drawing his prize inside him, bit by bit, and the sheer pride he exudes when he does it.

Spike would give a lot to see Connor’s face now – but he wouldn’t give up his place. Besides, he can imagine the small, satisfied smile that still curls his lips, even as stretched as they are. He can imagine how deep his eyes must seem, eyelids half closed already in pleasure. It’s the same pleasure on Angel’s face, and Spike has a feeling he won’t be lasting very long.

None of them will.

He runs his hand up and down Connor’s back, strokes his cock to the same slow pace a few more times, then grabs Connor’s hips with both hands, holding him steady, like Angel is holding his face. There’s no shared look before they start; no need for one. The same rhythm pulses in both of them, staccato echoing Connor’s heartbeat. Short, fast thrusts, never pulling out completely before they press back deep inside the heat of Connor’s body.

It’s only moments before Connor starts moaning. The sound curls around Spike’s balls like a whisper of silk. It must feel amazing around Angel’s dick. Looking up from the trembling expanse of Connor’s back, Spike finds Angel in game face, eyes glowing more fiercely with each thrust, and only then does he realizes he shifted too. They share a grin above Connor, understanding in the flash of a fang. They pick up their pace at the same time, and Connor’s moans only grow louder.

“That’s it, luv. Just like that.”

“Such a good boy. Can you take more baby? Can you take more for Daddy?”

And Connor does. Takes everything they give him, filled from both ends and his body mindlessly asking for more still, arching back into Spike then pushing into Angel. Spike didn’t think he could love him more, but in that moment, watching him surrender so totally, he does.

He knows that this might be just this one time, just for now. Not that Connor and Angel aren’t enjoying themselves and each other just as much as Spike is, but they’re father and son, they’re souled, they’re human – or at least, one of them is close to being as much, and the other will be again, some day, maybe. They know, like Spike does, that this is wrong; the only difference is that Spike doesn’t care now and will not care later. They’ve chosen to forget for the moment, but they will remember, they’ll remind each other. Spike doesn’t know which of them will say it can’t happen again, but he’d bet the soul he doesn’t have anymore that one of them _will_ say it. And the other will agree, just because.

Just because they love each other. Just because they each would give the other anything he wants. Like they’re doing, right now. Like they might do, again, if the old fears rise, if one, or both, needs it. But they won’t make a habit of it. 

A pity, if anyone asked for Spike’s opinion, but they won’t, and that’s all right. Spike didn’t bring them to the same bed for his own enjoyment – or at least, it wasn’t the main goal. He’s been taking care of damaged minds and hearts for so long, now, it’s second nature to him. Maybe this time he even managed to heal them a little. If, come nighttime, he’s in another room, another bed, he’ll be fine with that. Because he knows Connor will be right next to him.

And until then… He presses in a little harder. He couldn’t say who, of Connor or Angel, makes the most beautiful noises, but they do sound even better together.

*

When Connor wakes up again, the entire world feels a bit fuzzy around the edges. Fuzzy is good, he realizes when he tries to shift in his cocoon of vampire arms. Fuzzy definitely beats the all-over soreness he feels, muscles protesting the smallest move. Then again, remembering _how_ he got sore makes every little ache feel like a gift.

He’s not too sure how they ended up like this, Connor lying against Angel’s side, his cheek resting on his shoulder, and Spike wrapped over him like a living blanket that moves with every one of his breaths. There’s a point in his memories where everything turns white and blinding. He knows how one thing ended at least, because the taste of come is still thick on his tongue.

As the world comes back into focus, he realizes what that low, rumbling noise he can feel as much as hear is. Lifting his arm from Angel’s chest, he wraps it over Spike instead, fingers spread in the middle of his back so he can feel him purring even better. Connor wishes he could do the same, show without a word how good he feels – but the grumbling noises that twist his stomach are anything but a purr. He shifts reflexively, trying to silence the pangs of hunger, and feels a silent laugh being pressed against his side when Spike slides off him but stays close.

“This is getting annoying,” he mutters, a little embarrassed.

And the fact that he’s embarrassed about his rumbling stomach when he’s starkers in bed with two men, both vampires, one of them his father, his throat a little sore every time he swallows… Yeah. Maybe his brain is still a bit fuzzy.

“Do you want that breakfast now?” Angel asks without the slightest hint of irony to his words.

Spike is already pulling away when Connor mumbles an affirmative. He turns to watch him walk over to the dresser – or rather, to watch his ass. He has a really nice ass. And judging from Angel chuckling soundlessly next to him, and Spike turning to flash him a smug look, he might have said that aloud. The fuzzy brain thing might not be all that good.

“It’s cold,” Spike says, vaguely reproachful. “Do you have a microwave in this place?”

“I don’t know,” Angel says with a small shrug. 

The movement dislodges Connor, and he turns fully into Angel's side, mindlessly throwing an arm over his chest. 

“If there’s one, it’s got to be in the hotel kitchen,” Angel continues. “Downstairs. I can—”

“I’ll find it,” Spike cuts in. He comes back to the bed and leans over Angel to rest a hand on Connor’s cheek, tilting his face for a kiss, long and sweet. “Be right back, luv,” he murmurs when he pulls away.

Connor smiles at him and watches him leave with the food, closing his eyes after he’s disappeared. Grumbling stomach notwithstanding, this is nice. He wishes Spike hadn’t left, though. Hopes he’ll be back soon. 

As his mind slowly clears, everything that has happened in the past twenty-four tumbles through his head, the memories superimposing over each other, gestures and words out of order, but the overall story is one he could tell in his sleep. It’s the story of his entire life, really. It’s about love, and loss, and clinging to his family as tightly as he can.

After a moment, Angel’s hand starts stroking his arm softly, almost soothingly. It’s only when Angel whispers, “I’m not going anywhere,” that Connor realizes how tightly he’s holding on to him.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still closed, but doesn’t relax his grip. “And neither am I. Not even if you try to make me.”

Angel tenses beneath him. “I wasn’t trying…” His entire chest moves under Connor when he sighs. “I just wanted you to be safe.”

“I know,” Connor says again, and he does. He really does. He understands what the hell was going on in Angel’s head when he cooked up that stupid plan. He just thinks Angel was wrong from start to finish on that one, and he needs to be sure Angel understands that. “I know what you wanted, but not like that. Not ever again.” He raises his head, gives Angel the most solemn look he can muster. “Promise me.”

Angel’s eyebrows furrow into a deep V. He meets Connor’s gaze without flinching. “I’ll try.”

Connor shakes his head and sits up, looking at Angel more closely. “Not good enough, Dad.”

“But that’s all I have to give you.” Angel’s expression is absolutely unrepentant as he sits up too and leans back against the headboard. He crosses his arms over his chest, and couldn’t look any more serious if he were wearing clothes. “With the lives we have, I can’t say I’ll never have another hard choice to make. And I can’t promise I won’t make another mistake.” His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. Self-deprecation never looked good on him. “Mistakes are all I ever did where you’re concerned.”

Connor’s fists tighten on top of his thighs. “Not true.”

Angel shrugs. “It feels like it.”

“Not to me,” Connor insists. They had this discussion before and he thought Angel understood he holds no grudges. How many times does he need to say there’s nothing to forgive?

After a moment, Angel nods. Murmurs, “Ok,” and it’s not a promise, but it feels like one. He reaches out for Connor, curls a hand at the back of his head and draws him close. Connor thinks of tilting his head back to offer his mouth, but in the end he doesn’t and lets Angel brush his lips to his forehead. It feels just as nice as a proper kiss.

He lies back down against Angel’s side. Angel’s hand is still on his head, caressing softly. Connor closes his eyes again, reassured, calmer, but his mind is still churning. So much has happened – not just this past day, but in the past weeks, ever since that van hit him – and he has a feeling it’s only the beginning. Whatever happens, there’s one thing he wants – one thing he needs. He’ll have some explaining to do with his family, and he's not sure how the whole school thing is going to work out, but as long as Angel understands, that’s enough. Words bubble to his lips, and he lets them slip out, a whisper against Angel’s shoulder. 

“When I left Wolfram and Hart… after I remembered, I mean. I thought I could go back to my life. Just… be Connor Reilly, and forget about vampires and everything else. Forget you.”

Angel’s fingers still in his hair, and his chest moves, taking in a breath to speak, but Connor isn’t done.

“I couldn’t do that,” he continues, the words rushing out of him. “I could never do that. You’re part of me and every time you’re not in my life it's like... there’s... a piece. Missing. Even when I don’t know any better, there's still _something_ not quite right. I don’t want to be broken anymore. So I’m going to stay here. And you don’t get to say no.”

Angel is shaking as he holds Connor close. “I love you,” he breathes. “I don’t want you to be… broken. But we can’t keep doing this. This is not—”

“I know,” Connor cuts in, grinning, already relieved. If Angel is arguing about that, he'll let the rest pass. “I didn’t mean… here in this bed. I mean, the hotel. With you.” And then, because Spike is terrible at eavesdropping, he adds, “I’ve already got a boyfriend, I don’t need another one. And you’d make a terrible boyfriend anyway.” 

“I would not!” Angel mutters. His hand slips to Connor’s ribs and he pokes him with a finger.

Connor laughs, pulling away. “You totally would. Always trying to control everything and hiding stuff and being all grumpypants when things don’t go your way. I don’t know how Spike stands it, really.”

He expects Spike to barge in and protest at that, but he doesn’t, and Connor wonders if maybe he imagined those steps in the hallway. Regardless, Angel’s flummoxed expression is priceless.

“I’m not Spike’s—” Apparently, he can’t even say the word. “Never was… I don’t…”

Connor kisses his cheek lightly and laughs. “You also have no sense of humor, Dad.”

Angel seems to be torn between scowling and smiling; the resulting expression is... interesting. And rather comical. “Yes I do. Just… not for this. This is not a joke.”

They’re hopeless, both he and Spike, but Connor will let them sort it out by themselves. If they haven’t killed each other so far, they don’t need him to meddle.

Sobering up, he grins. “No, it’s not a joke,” he concedes. “You want to know why I don’t want you as a boyfriend? Because you’re my dad. And I’m proud you are.”

Angel’s beaming smile could light up the world.

*

Angel starts to worry for his soul. It doesn’t last long. He’s in bed with his son, with the scent of come thick enough around them that he can almost taste it. 

It’s perfect, yes, but perfectly wrong. As perfectly wrong, maybe, as he and Darla were for each other. There’s some kind of symmetry there that feels right, even if Connor is nothing like Darla. He has her eyes, her slight frame – her smile, when the need to hurt someone flashes through his body and touches every muscle, even those at the corners of his eyes and mouth. But he's also everything she once hated, and Angel loves him that much more for it.

“And I’m proud you’re my son.” He almost chokes on the words and has to push the rest out. “So we agree, then? No more of this?”

Sitting back against the headboard next to him, Connor shrugs, and their shoulders brush together. “Like you said, with the kind of lives we have, who knows what will happen?”

Angel isn’t quite sure what to make out of that. Connor got a promise out of him, it’d only be fair if he returned the favor. Before Angel can decide whether to insist or let it drop, Connor reaches for the covers at the foot of the bed and draws them up, covering both their laps.

“Plus Spike is always greedy,” he adds. “And pushy. And terrible at eavesdropping.”

Which is when Spike saunters in, a covered plate in one hand and two open beers in the other. “I’m only pushy when I need to be," he says, clucking his tongue. "And it’s not like I was trying to hide.” He sets the plate and bottles on the tray, uncovers the plate, brings everything over without so much as a rattle.

Angel would object about the beers, but as soon as Spike deposits the tray on Connor’s lap, he picks up the two bottles and hands one over to Angel. Connor rolls his eyes but he doesn’t comment and digs into the eggs with gusto while Spike sits next to him.

“Serious lack of blood in that fridge,” Spike says after taking a swig of beer. “I guess the otter blood days are over?”

“I’m afraid so.” Angel takes a sip; he’s still watching Connor eat, and all too aware that Spike is watching _him_ \- all too aware that if he looked at him, his eyes would say something like, _you sap_. So he very pointedly doesn’t look at him.

“I did some exploring,” Spike says after Connor has finished eating. He clears the tray, leaving it on the floor, and draws Connor against him. “There’s a suite at the other end of the hallway. Looks pretty nice to me. There’s a Jacuzzi, too.” He says that last part in a low voice, words covered in sex and honey. 

Connor laughs against his next then raises his head to kiss him lightly. “Bubbles are fun,” he says, then steals Spike’s beer for a swallow. Spike makes a show of protesting and they banter about the beer, the Jacuzzi, Spike’s taste. Silly things.

Angel watches them, watches how comfortable they are with each other as he has done since the first time he saw them together, and for the first time he doesn’t envy them or the closeness they share. For the first time he doesn't feel left out, and not just because Connor is close enough that he can feel his heat without even touching him. Reaching behind them, he caresses Spike’s hair like he did Connor’s earlier, and when Spike looks at him he smiles. Spike seems a bit confused for a moment, but he shrugs, then smiles back. He and Connor keep babbling about that suite, and Angel is only half listening. 

It’s a strange new era starting here. He’s not sure what’s going to happen, but he knows Wolfram and Hart will be more unpleasant than ever. He also knows that he’s not alone – and that he’ll never be alone again. 

Connor said he was broken, but so was Angel. When he beat up Connor so they could escape from Jasmine, when he slashed his throat, when he let him walk away from his office without asking - _Do you remember? Do you forgive me? *Can* you forgive me?_ \- bits of his heart, of his soul maybe, were torn apart, broken pieces sharp as shards of glass, just as fragile – and just as cutting. 

He has found all those pieces again, he has put them back together, and to his own surprise they fit so well that he can barely see the seams. 

So no, he doesn’t know what’s going to happen. But whatever comes his way, he is ready for it. Looking at his boys, he amends the thought. _They_ are.

 

The end


End file.
